


My Love, the Pleasure's Mine

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Sex Pollen, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3.  While investigating a rash of magically-induced hook ups, Sam and Dean get hit with a fuck or die curse.  It would be a lot easier to deal with if the witch wasn't being such a smug bitch about it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love, the Pleasure's Mine

“No.” 

“No?” Dean turns to the passenger seat. His brother is slouched into the corner of the car, arms crossed and doing a dead-on impression of himself at fifteen, sulkiness exuding from every pore. “Whaddya mean, ‘no’?”

Sam continues to brood, and adopts the pretentious, whiny tone that Dean likes to refer to as his ‘Stanford’ voice. “I mean ‘no’, as in ‘absolutely not’.”

Dean is way too spent to beat his brother’s head in right now, so he just sighs. “What’s wrong with it?”

Sam’s answering look could freeze fire. “Dean, there’s a _clown_ out front. On the sign”

Dean snorts. “Seriously, dude?” Sam does look ridiculously serious, so he laughs for real this time and turns the wheel into the lot. “First of all, it’s a joker. Not a clown.” Dean gestures to Sam’s bag in the back. “You know, like on a deck of cards?” Sam makes a grumbly sound in response, but is apparently refusing to use his words. Dean glides Baby into one of the multiple empty spaces in the _Black Jack_ motel’s lot and pulls the parking brake. “Secondly, you’re a grown man, Sam.  _Over_ grown. I think you can handle a spooky motel sign for one night.” He shifts in his seat to face his brother more fully and rests his aching knee on the leather. “And thirdly, this is the only goddamn motel we’ve seen in miles. I’m exhausted, you’re exhausted, and we keep sniping at each other like friggin’ Anderson and Tommy Lee. I don’t wanna keep driving anymore, man. Let’s just stay here for one night and we can head out to Bellflower in the morning.

Sam agitatedly rubs at his shin and gives Dean the side-eye. “Are you Tommy Lee in this scenario?”

“Well, I ain’t really got the tits for Pamela.” He grins and clicks his tongue.

Sam exhales dramatically and thumps his head against the back of the seat. “We could just keep going for a little bit, I’m sure there’s another motel close by.”

Dean turns and yanks the key out of the ignition. Discussion over. “There isn’t, Sam. And I’m tired. And if you do any more driving today, you’re gonna wrap us around a pole.” Sam had taken a fairly impressive shift earlier on, driving for a solid nine hours or so, before they had switched off again. They’d been in Wisconsin, finishing up a routine salt and burn, when Bobby’d given them a call and pointed them towards California. Point is, they’re both wiped, and for the last couple miles Sam had started rubbing at his joints in the exact way he always did when his legs were cramping up on him. “We’re staying. Deal with it." 

Sam looks like he wants to push the issue for a second, then gives up and sighs. Loudly. “Fine.” He unenthusiastically drags himself toward the back seat to grab their bags. “I’ll handle the stuff, just go get us a room.”

Dean observes his brother for a moment and can’t help feeling guilty. God help him, the kid looks miserable. Fucking clowns, man. They’d had to deal with that rakshasa a little over a year and a half ago, and Dean had thought that maybe facing his fears (literally) would have cured Sam of his weird phobia. Apparently not. 

He leans over and squeezes the hand Sam’s got on the bags. “C’mon, Sammy. It won’t be that bad.” Sam simply quirks a sarcastic eyebrow in response, so Dean presses a slow kiss to the divot in his brother’s chin. He waggles his eyebrows. “How ‘bout I make it worth your while?” This thing between them is still fairly new. They’ve only been messing around for two months or so, ever since Christmas, and it still sends an electric thrill through Dean every time he’s allowed to touch Sam in the way he’d ached to for so long. Sam just stares, still unimpressed, as Dean leaves a few more pecks along the younger man’s jaw. It isn’t until Dean grabs Sam’s hand and presses a lingering kiss to the back of it, gentleman-style, that he breaks down and laughs.

Sam wiggles his hand out of his brother’s grasp, but he’s smiling now and the earlier tension seems to have dissipated. “Oh my God you’re a dork. Go get the fucking room.”

Dean tosses Sam’s bag at his gut and receives a surprised “oof” in response. “Not unless you come with me, Sammy.” He shoulders his own duffel and shuffles out the driver’s side door.

“Yeah, fine.” Sam follows him out of the car and slams his own door shut. He adjusts the strap that’s digging into his shoulder and catches up to Dean’s side. “But if you think I’m fucking you in the creepy clown motel, you’re out of your goddamned mind.”

Dean puts on an overdramatically aghast face and places a hand to his chest. “Why Sam, I would never.” They head to the office, side-by-side, and Dean intentionally bumps his arm against his brother’s. “I was gonna fuck _you_.” He slips through the door as quickly as he can, not even stopping to enjoy Sam’s reaction. His brother is only seconds behind him, so Dean steps up to the girl behind the desk before Sam can get another word in edgewise. “My _brother_ and I would like a room for tonight, please.” Ha. Dean wins. Sam literally can’t say anything in front of the motel clerk now, and Dean revels in the bitter look on his face.

The clerk is a young woman, mid-twenties at most, with a slightly sallow complexion and dull, blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She’s flipping through a magazine and looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Dean thinks that if he were working the 4am shift in a nowhere motel in lower Nebraska, he’d probably be pissed too. When she speaks, her voice has the unmistakable flatness of the Midwest. “Two queens then?” 

Dean smiles and nods, glancing at her nametag. It reads ‘Sherri’ and there’s a little smiley face dotted over the ‘i’. Judging by Sherri’s delightful demeanor, someone else had probably added the doodle. Dean is betting on ironically. “That’d be perfect, Sherri.” He leans an elbow on the desk and gives her his third most charming smile, ignoring Sam’s very loud eye roll behind him. Well, he can’t actually hear it. But he’s positive that it’s exactly what Sam is doing at the moment.

Unfortunately, Sherri-with-an-i seems immune to his extreme handsomeness. She fixes him with a vacant stare and continues chewing her gum. “One night, double room. That’ll be fifty dollars and thirty-nine cents.” Dean very graciously recovers from the rebuff and hands over the credit card from his back pocket. She runs it through the scanner, then pauses, and tries again. “Sorry, uh—Dick. Looks like it’s been declined.”

Regrettable, but it isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. The only problem is that he can’t exactly hand her one of his other cards because they all have different names on them. And although ‘Dick Passwater’ had seemed hilarious at the time Dean was filling out the forms, it’s also, unfortunately, pretty memorable. He tries to look as innocent as possible. “Well, that’s certainly never happened before. Ha, what a world huh?” He smiles a little wider.  _Don’t ask me, I’m just some regular schmoe. Never committed fraud in my life. Hell, I don’t even know the meaning of the word. What is it even? Like, some type of bird or something?_ He blinks a couple times, _very_ innocently. Sam twitches a little bit behind him, but apparently his Bambi shtick works, because she just gives him a bored look and snaps her gum. He gives her his second most charming grin. “Don’t worry, I’m sure my brother’s card will work.” He tries to communicate the name issue to Sam using only his eyebrows, but he probably just looks like he’s having a small seizure. Luckily, Sam is fluent enough in Dean-ese to catch his drift. He steps forward, pulls out his money clip, skips over a couple of possibly risky cards, and hands the clerk their brand-est, shiny-est, new-est American Express. He’s also doing a very good job of _not_ looking like he wants to set his brother on fire with his brain. Dean’s so proud. 

She glances at the name on the card before sliding it through the reader. “Aaron Bloom.” She looks at Sam, then back to the card. “If y’all are brothers, then how come y’all have different last names?” 

Sam nervously pulls at his collar and opens his mouth to stall, but Dean simply slaps his brother on the back and butts in. “Ah. Same mom, different dads. It’s a sad story.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Mama was a working girl, if you catch my drift.” He winks at her, but she’s already bored again and focusing on the register. Sam shoots him a look that says, “ _If you’d picked a normal name for that card, we wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.”_ Dean responds with a slightly different look that says, “ _You could’ve been ‘Aaron **Passwater’**_ _and we’d have been fine too, so fuck off.”_ By the time Sherri-with-an-i brings her head back up, they’re sporting identical, innocent smiles.

She blinks a little uneasily at their expressions, first show of emotion all night, then gives Sam back his card. “’Kay, y’all are set. Room number four. Check-out’s eleven-thirty.” She hands Dean the keycards and instantly returns to her lackluster perusal of US Weekly. 

Dean passes one of the keys to Sam and follows him out into the parking lot, leaving the light of the motel office behind them. They make their way to the room, close enough that he doesn’t even need to move Baby from her spot, and head inside. The ‘playing cards’ theme has apparently transferred over to the rooms as well, and all four card suits decorate their wallpaper and bedspreads. Well, at least there aren’t any jokers in here, Sam would probably throw a fit and make them get a new room. As it is, he seems thankfully undisturbed by the décor and fiddles with his duffel for a bit before heading into the bathroom. Dean, however, falls face-first onto the closest bed, not even stopping to remove his jacket or boots. His amulet is digging into his chest a little, but he’s too tired to really care.

Sam sticks his head around the corner after a few seconds, embarrassingly girly-colored toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.”

Dean waves his hand in Sam’s general direction without moving most of his exhausted body. “Tomorrow, Sammy. If you’re good.” Sam laughs and heads back into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth. Dean lies on the cheap comforter for a few minutes, then shifts his head to the side and calls out, “Hey, Sam. D’you think that ‘fraud’ could be the name of a bird?” Sam pops his head out again, holding a washcloth this time, and gives Dean a weird look. “Y’know, like a ‘black-breasted fraud’ or something.” Dean kicks off his boots as best as he can without unlacing them. “‘Ivory-frauded warbler’.” Sam just stares at him like he’s lost his mind, then shakes his head in mock exasperation and ducks back out of sight. Dean listens to the soothing sound of the running faucet until he falls into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

The peaceful morning sunlight gently rises over the motel building, then beats through the open window and glares directly into Dean’s eyes. Oh, goody. Apparently both him and Sam had forgotten to shut the blinds last night. Dean groans and turns over, but it’s too late. He’s awake now and he’s regretting not brushing his teeth before he conked out. He manages to wrench one eye open and blearily stares at Sam in the opposite bed. His brother is fast asleep, lying on his back with his mouth slightly open as he breathes in and out. He looks dumb, but it’s a loveable kind of dumb, and one of his arms is outstretched over the edge of his bed, reaching across the gap between the mattresses. 

Dean lumbers off of his mostly undisturbed comforter and slides himself over his brother’s body. “Wakey-wakey, Sammy.” He presses a closed-mouth kiss to Sam’s throat. “Time to get up.” Sam simply sighs pleasantly and snuggles closer into his arms. Dean squeezes him in a quick hug, then backs off. “Nuh-uh, get up.” They never have sex during a hunt. Ever. That was how people got dead. Sam makes a pathetic whimpering noise as Dean lifts himself completely away from the bed. “Seriously, Sam, wake the fuck up.” Dean’s words are harsh, but his tone is fairly light.

He turns away from his brother’s still-sleeping form (offensively blissful in oblivion) and drags himself into the bathroom to grab a quick shower. He makes sure to sing Black Sabbath at the top of his lungs as irritatingly as he can while he’s shampooing and rinsing his hair. If Sam is already awake when he gets out, they’ll be able get on the road that much faster. 

Unfortunately, by the time Dean’s finished showering, Sam is still unconscious. He has, however, managed to turn onto his side and plop a pillow over his head. Looks like Dean’s singing kind of worked, just not exactly how he wanted. Whoopee, story of his life. He scrubs his towel over his wet hair, then removes Sam’s pillow and plonks the damp terrycloth down in its place. “Up and at ‘em, tiger. Places to be and things to do.” Sam just groans and remains annoyingly still, not even bothered by the wet material covering his head. Dean smacks his ass through the blanket and heads over to his duffel. “C’mon, Sam. We got a solid five hours. Get your ass out of bed.” He can hear his brother stirring behind him as he pulls his clothes on, and discovers that one of Sam’s t-shirts has somehow migrated its way into his bag. Dean turns to toss it at him, but when he catches sight of Sam’s face, he pauses. His eyes are completely bloodshot and there are two matching deep purple bruises underneath. 

Sam stretches his arms over his head, then cottons on to Dean's staring. “What?” When Dean doesn’t answer, he rubs a hand over his eyes and blinks up at him. “What is it, man?”

Dean sighs angrily and chucks Sam’s shirt at his chest. Hard. “What time did you get to bed, Sam?”

Sam looks marginally guilty, it’s early enough that his usual defenses are still mostly asleep. “Same as you, Dean. Four, or whatever.”

Dean clamps his fingers over the back of the crappy chair in the corner and makes sure to breathe very evenly. “Were you on your laptop all night?” 

Sam’s face pinches into stubbornness, and he throws his covers back. “I don’t know. I guess.” He stands and turns his back to Dean, roughly unzipping and pawing through his own duffel. 

“I swear to god, Sam, you _better_ have been looking at porn.”

Sam yanks the shirt Dean threw at him over his own head, and tugs a pair of jeans over the boxers he was sleeping in. “What do you want from me, Dean? Nothing you can say is gonna make me stop trying to help you, so you’re just gonna have to fucking deal with it.” Sam whirls around and glares at him. “Look, you’re the one who said you didn’t want to go to Hell, right? That’s what I’m _doing_. And guess what, Dean? Losing a little sleep is really just the tip of the fucking iceberg.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “You have to sleep, Sam.” Sam throwing his little moment of weakness back in his face isn’t doing anything to reestablish his good mood. “I need to be able to trust that you’ve got my back out there.” 

Sam is silent and still for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is terrifyingly even. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Dean grips the chair harder and the cheap plastic makes a miserable squeaking sound. “I thought I said that I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Sam holds his stare, unflinching. “So, stop talking about it then.”

Dean glares back for a few seconds more, then exhales harshly and picks up his bag. “Fine. You’re happy, I’m happy. Let’s go.” He does one last sweep of the room and drops a five onto the counter for the maid. But as Dean heads out the door, Sam lagging slightly behind, ‘happy’ isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe anything. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The next several hours are pretty uncomfortable. Actually, to be honest, they’re more like death. They sit in almost complete silence, Dean too pissy to even put in a cassette. He stares straight ahead at the road and tries to focus on anything but the waves of animosity radiating from his brother’s body. They stop once, for some drive-thru breakfast and finish that in silence as well. Finally, after a torturously unending amount of time, Dean tries to extend an olive branch and offers to let Sam pick the music. He was expecting Sam to just put in one of his lesser-hated tapes, but instead he flicks the radio on and tunes in to some whiny alt rock station. It’s obnoxiously emo for Dean’s ears, but he figures that he can suffer through some British guy wailing about black holes if it’ll give him a break from his brother’s silent treatment.

By the time they pull into a Utah diner for some late dinner, they’re actually both in okay moods and Sam is willing to talk about the case over the too-sticky, plastic table. Dean orders his usual burger, Sam his usual froufrou rabbit food, and they wait for the waitress to wander back to the kitchen before bringing up anything work-related.  

“Okay, so get this.” Sam spreads a number of file folders across the space between them. “Four incidents—that we know of—all taking place within the last two weeks in Bellflower, California. All involving sex.” He takes a sip of Coke through his straw without moving his eyes from the papers, then slides one over to Dean. “This is Tony Antonucci.” It’s a black and white printout, but the image is clear enough that Dean can pick out the guy’s features. Handsome, twenty-something, probably Italian. Sam continues speaking, “Twenty-five years old, _very_ well off. His family is all from Los Angeles, but he’s been down in Bellflower for the last few months to oversee some real estate thing.” Sam forks a bite of his salad. “See, the Antonuccis are one of those ‘old money’ set-ups, and Tony here is the heir to a sixty-five million dollar trust fund once he hits thirty.” Dean lets out a low whistle, and Sam nods. “Yeah, but here’s the thing. Only five years before he hits it big, and he up and gets engaged to…” Sam rifles through the papers before sliding another over to Dean, “Helena Cohen.” Dean holds up the picture. She’s pretty enough, pale with curly hair and dark eyes. “See, Helena’s apparently Jewish, and the Antonucci family is devoutly, _severely_ Catholic. The instant they found out, they cut Tony off. Completely. Pretty big deal, it was even in the papers.” 

Dean dips a fry in his ketchup and waves it at Sam. “So he got himself a little Jewish Princess. Zappa would be proud. Doesn’t mean there’s a case here.”

“Dean, this guy was five years away from becoming a _multi_ -millionaire. Even if he really liked this girl, don’t you think they would have just waited until after the trust fund kicked in?”

Dean pops the fry into his mouth. “Pussy makes you do crazy things, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes and gives Dean his ‘I can’t believe we’re actually related’ look. “Okay, so what about this one? Senator Joel Edgeman.” He hands Dean a picture of an unassuming guy wearing a suit and tie. Thick glasses, grey hair, probably late sixties. “He was a front-runner for representation of his congressional district, total shoo-in for the job, obvious favorite by a mile.” Sam raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “ _Until_ —all of a sudden, he leaves his wife to shack up with his secretary. It completely shattered his campaign and he lost by a landslide.”

Dean is still unimpressed. “Senator sleeps with his secretary? Not really shocking news there, Cronkite.” 

Sam waves a hand in front of his face and swallows the mouthful of lettuce he’d been chewing. “But no, see, he wasn’t caught with her. It’s not like some tabloid found out and released it and screwed up his career. He did it to himself. He called an emergency press conference and announced to the world that he was leaving his wife to move in with the woman that he’d had an affair with. He literally tanked his own campaign.”

Dean taps his thumb against his lips thoughtfully. “Hmm, an honest politician. Guess that is pretty shocking.”

Sam holds a finger up. “ _And_ , incident number three. Esteban and Rose Rivera.” Dean has so many papers on his side of the table now, they’re soaking up the ketchup on his plate. “They’ve been married for twenty-two years. One day, all of a sudden, Esteban comes home to find Rose in bed with his brother, Carlos. He goes after both of them with a handgun, but they manage to overpower him and call 911. He’s in Corcoran prison right now, up in King’s County.” Sam messes with a crouton for a bit, but he seems to be mostly finished with his meal. “Weirdly enough though, the neighbors all swear that Esteban would never hurt a fly. Totally out of character.”

Dean shakes his glass.  It’s entirely empty except for the ice, so he reaches out and takes a pull from his brother’s. “This is still pretty basic stuff, Sam. What makes you think it’s our kind of thing?”

“Okay, yeah, by themselves, they’re not much. But c’mon, Dean,” Sam shoves his plate aside, “all of these happening within two weeks of each other? And you have to admit there’s an obvious pattern here.”

Dean tosses the last bite of burger into his mouth and chews as he thinks. “Okay, say I buy it. What’re you thinking? Succubus?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, see that’s what I thought at first, too. But it doesn’t make sense.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, even if all of the women here are actually the same monster-chick, why would she stay married to that one dude for twenty years? And, apart from that case, there doesn’t seem to be any violence or death or anything in the others. Not really a succubus’s typical M.O.”

“Exactly.” Sam grabs the last folder. “Which is why this one didn’t make sense either.” He tosses it to Dean. “Christopher Weiss and Duncan Allard. Weiss manages the local K-Mart and Allard is some high mucky-muck over at Williams & Davis.” Dean’s not sure if that name is supposed to mean anything, so he stares at Sam until he explains. “It’s a pretty prestigious law firm.” Sam’s lips twitch into an amused grin. “Anyway, Duncan met Christopher when he came to the K-Mart to mediate some lawsuit they were going through a few months ago. I guess someone slipped on something and got a little too litigious. Point is,” he grabs his Coke back from Dean, “right at the same time all this other stuff is happening, they both announce that they’re in love and move in together. And it was a pretty big upset, because before that point, no one actually knew they were gay. Duncan even lost his job over it.” He wiggles his fingers. “Unofficially.” Sam leans back against the booth, looking excessively proud of himself. “And the kicker? Up until that point, Christopher Weiss had been happily married with two kids…for years.”

Dean rubs a hand over his chin and gives in. “Alright, I guess that is pretty unusual.” He drapes an arm over the back of his booth. “So, what? A succubus _and_ an incubus? Three succubuses and an incubus? These relationships seem to be happening pretty rapidly, maybe they’re hunting together?”

Sam squints and tilts his head. “I’m pretty sure it’s ‘succubi’. But, no, I don’t think so. Like you said, no one’s actually getting hurt. And no drained corpses have popped up anywhere.” He shrugs. “Bobby had a couple ideas, but the fact that no one’s turned up dead has crossed most of them off the list.”

Something in Sam’s voice is bugging Dean, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. “Bobby? When did you talk to Bobby?”

Sam’s face immediately goes completely blank. Too blank. Poker face blank. “He called while you were in the bathroom. We only spoke for a second.”

Dean taps his fingers on the table. “Uh-huh.”

Sam twitches a little. “What?”

“What did you and Bobby talk about?”

Sam shifts in his seat. It’s a miniscule gesture, but Dean can read it as clearly as if it were lit up on a neon sign. “I told you, man. He had some ideas about the case.”

Dean nods very sincerely. “Oh, absolutely. By the way, do you mind stopping by the toy store on our way out of town? I need to pick up a few My Little Ponies before we leave. You know, because I love them so much.” Sam makes an exasperated noise and Dean jerks across his side of the table. “You guys are talking about the fucking _deal_ again, aren’t you?” Sam just meets his stare, not speaking, but refusing to deny anything either. “Goddammit, Sam. Is this hunt even real? What, you guys are sending me on some wild goose chase out to the West Coast just to keep me away from South Dakota?” 

Sam’s hands tighten into fists on the tabletop. “The hunt is real, Dean.” He clenches his jaw for a few seconds, then gives in. “But, yeah. We thought if we could keep you away from Sioux Falls for a while, it couldn’t hurt. The hunt just happened to be…fortuitous.” 

Dean has to grind his teeth together to stop himself from shouting. “Sam. Whatever it is that you’re doing, it counts as _welching_. And if you _welch_ , then you _die_.” He takes a breath and tries to calm down, then growls, “Can you see why maybe I wouldn’t be okay with that?”

Sam’s face softens instantly. His entire body relaxes and he fixes Dean with one of his overly tender puppy dog stares. “Dean, of course I get it.” He reaches out to cover one of Dean’s hands with his own, but Dean jerks his away. Sam looks a little dejected, but recovers quickly. “I swear that whatever we’re doing isn’t gonna get me killed. I _swear_ , Dean.” He meets Dean’s eyes and smiles excitedly. “And the thing Bobby’s working on, it looks really promising. It really, really does.” 

Sam looks so hopeful, and so desperate, that Dean doesn’t have the heart to stay upset with him. The waitress chooses that moment to interrupt them with the check. They turn down dessert and stay silent until she heads off again. Dean scrutinizes his brother’s face in the weak fluorescent light. His head is tilted down, but there’s still a look of wild hope in his expression. Hope that Dean can’t quite stamp out, no matter how unlikely it is to come true. The longer bangs on either side of Sam’s temples sweep low over his brows, but Dean can still see his eyes glimmer with restrained emotion.  

He sighs and hooks a foot around his brother’s ankle under the table. “Okay, Sammy. We’ll work the damn case.” He gives Sam a weak smile. “What’re you thinking?” 

Sam looks adorably touched at Dean’s stupid little display of affection and gives him a much broader smile in return. Dimples and everything. He sweeps his arms a few times to collect the papers back to his side of the table. “Okay, so all these people are showing no signs of being unhappy. They’re in stable relationships or good places in their lives, when all of a sudden, they throw everything away for some random person and everything goes to shit.” He glances up, a little apprehensively. “I think they’re getting whammied, man.”

Dean groans and slumps down in his booth. “Ugh, _witches?_  I fucking hate witches.” He flops over onto his side and whines, “We just did witches, Sam. Like, a month ago. That is so completely not fair.” Sam isn’t responding, so Dean raises his head to peer over the table. Sam has a stony look on his face, dark and far away. Oh. Right. Sometimes Dean still forgot about Broward County. It’s been a little longer than that for Sam.  

He makes to apologize, but Sam recovers admirably and shoots him a feeble almost-smile. “You want me to call the town? Let them know that we’ll be by to help them when it’s a little more convenient for you?”

Dean smiles at Sam’s attempted sarcasm. He’s glad that his brother is in a good enough space to try to move on and joke at all. For a while, Sam had been terrified of Dean even leaving to use the bathroom on his own. It was kind of sweet, but mostly really fucking annoying when his little brother had insisted on following him everywhere and leaning against the door every time he had to take a leak. Dean jiggles his foot against Sam’s. “Okay, witches it is. Let’s go throw some water on these bitches.” He tosses a few bills onto the table, then stands and squeezes Sam into a light headlock before making for the door. If Sam follows a little closer than normal, Dean’s not gonna make a big deal out of it.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They finally make it into Bellflower around 3am. Dean did practically all of the driving for the entire trip and he’s wiped, so they make their way to the _Royalty Inn_ (which, thankfully, doesn’t have any jokers in sight) and grab a double for the week. Dean doesn’t think the case is actually gonna take that long, but Sam is obviously set on him avoiding the entire state of South Dakota until Bobby’s done with whatever idiotic hoodoo the two of them managed to rustle up. Dean finishes his bathroom routine on autopilot and collapses into his bed as quickly as he can. His back hurts and his ass hurts and his legs hurt, and if he weren’t heading to Hell in a couple months, he’d be worried about future arthritis or some shit.

Sam sleepily stumbles out of the bathroom, jeans and over shirt already removed, and determinedly climbs in with Dean. Normally, Dean is pretty insistent about them sleeping in their own beds—they’re paying for two, they may as well use two—but Sam sometimes got like this. More and more, recently. And Dean doesn’t have the heart to kick him out, not when he knows exactly what it is that’s causing his distress. Dean simply wraps his arms tight around his little brother, tucks his knees behind Sam’s, and breathes in against the back of his neck. Sam practically melts against his body and curls his arms around Dean’s grip on his waist. He tangles their feet together as well, seeking out every form of physical closeness he can…while he can. He falls asleep relatively quickly, and Dean is soothed by the even sound of his brother’s breathing. To be perfectly honest, Dean kind of likes it. The nightmares usually weren’t so bad when Sam was this close. 

But, Dean wakes to an empty bed the next morning. 

He pushes himself up to his elbows and scans the room, but Sam is nowhere to be found. The bathroom door is ajar, so he gets up and pads over to it, idly scratching at his stomach through his t-shirt. He pops his head in, but the room beyond is empty. He’s just about to start scanning the room for Sam’s cell phone, when the lock beeps and Sam walks in. 

“Hey, you’re up.” Sam grins as he shuts the door behind him. He looks much healthier than the day before, getting a full night’s sleep has done him good and he’s surprisingly bright eyed and bushy tailed. “Here, I got breakfast.” He’s clutching a white bag with a large picture of a bagel printed on it and tosses it at Dean. He continues to cheerfully ramble on as he sets Dean’s keys on the room’s small table. “There was a giant plaster bagel on top of this place and I thought it was one of those donut things, y’know?” He steps over and reaches into the bag that Dean’s still holding and pulls out a couple of plastic cream cheese containers. “But, turns out it was a bagel thing. So here we are.”

Dean lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and wearily eyeballs the giant golden crown making up most of the headboard on his bed. It’s very bright and very yellow for seven in the morning. He turns back to Sam and slumps into the open chair, tossing the bag of bagels onto the table. “You’re very cheery.” 

“What can I say?” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a bagel with some sort of dried fruit on it. Probably raisins or something, knowing Sam. “Guess I woke up on the right side of the bed.”

Dean grumbles, “Yeah, that’s ‘cause you were taking up most of it,” but Sam doesn’t seem to hear. He peeks into the bag to see what Sam got him. There’s only one other bagel in there and it has cheese and jalapenos on it. It’s a little too early for anything spicy, but at least it looks manlier than raisins. He grabs his bagel and chomps a bite out of it, not bothering with the cream cheese that Sam is so diligently spreading on his own. “So, what’s the play for today? FBI?” 

Sam scrunches his nose and sucks one of his fingers clean. “Nah, no reason for FBI to investigate. I say reporters. We can hit up Tony and his fiancée first, say we want an exclusive interview.” 

Dean struggles to speak around his mouthful of bread. “That’s the rich kid, right?” Sam looks a little disgusted at his open mouth, but nods and starts in on his own breakfast. “Alright, Sammy. Sounds good to me.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Dean tugs at the tie around his neck and loosens the knot a bit. He’d lost most of his mainstays during a particularly messy swamp hunt a little while ago and hadn’t had the time or motivation to go shopping for replacements. It’s not like he needs to look all professional for the Hot Box anyway. He’s currently wearing one of Sam’s least ugly numbers, but that really isn’t saying much. Dean pulls at the hideous scrap of fabric a fraction more.  _Brown and yellow speckles. Really, Sammy?_  A quick glance confirms that at least his brother isn’t fairing much better. Sam flaps open the heavy tweed of his jacket a couple times, doing his best to create some sort of air circulation. It’s only February, but the Southwest has apparently decided that sweltering is the way to go. 

Dean gestures up to the apartment building in front of them. “This it?” The building is…well, ‘crappy’ is the only word that readily springs to mind. Rust-colored stucco covers the entirety of the bulky structure, except for where it’s been scraped off by weather or teenagers. Dean can see a couple of exterior windows from his vantage point on the ground, but the decorative ironwork does nothing to disguise the fact that they’re barred to deter theft. Not the classiest neighborhood, but hey, who is Dean to judge? “You sure Richie Rich lives here?” 

Sam re-checks the address he’d scrawled onto a scrap of motel paper. “Yup, this is his official place of residency as of…two weeks ago.” He glances up at the building, shielding his eyes from the afternoon glare. “Apartment 302.” 

His brother presses the appropriate buzzer combination as Dean crosses his arms and leans against the entryway. “Think he’ll be home on a Wednesday?” 

Sam wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and glances back at Dean. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They wait a few more seconds before the intercom squawks to life. “Yes? Hello?” It’s a young woman’s voice, probably the fiancée.

Sam leans in a little closer to the receiver. “Hi. My name is Simon Kirke and this is my partner, Paul Rodgers. We’re reporters with the Los Angeles Times. We were hoping to speak with a Mr. Tony Antonucci or a Ms. Helena Cohen?”

The speaker is silent for a few moments, before crackling on again. “Um, this is Rachel. I’m Helena’s roommate. I think she might be back in a couple hours, if you wanna check back then?” 

Sam turns to give him a questioning look and Dean ponders for a bit. The roommate might be helpful, plus it would give them access to the place before the lovebirds came back. He leans into the intercom and sets his voice to drawl. “We’d actually love to get _your_ take on the story as well, if you don’t mind. Kind of a different point of view, y’know?” 

The tinny voice at the other end sounds flattered. “R-really? Me?”

Dean throws Sam a smug look. Yup, he’s still got it. “Why, of course, Rachel. The L.A. Times is all about really digging into the authentic story. We’d be thrilled to get the legitimate scoop from you. I’m sure your interview would be…” he licks his lips and smirks at Sam again, “ _indispensible_.”

The voice has moved from flattered to full on flustered. “Um, s-sure. I mean, of course.” It giggles. “I’d love to help you out. Oh god—I mean, the paper. Not you, specifically or anything. Just, you know, for, uh—journalism and everything.” 

He claps his brother on the back. Success. “Thanks so much, darlin’. You’re providing an invaluable service to the press at large.” 

The feminine voice titters for a little, and then they’re being buzzed in. Sam gives Dean a look like acid. “Piling it on a little thick there, don’t you think?” 

Dean just laughs and nudges ahead of Sam so he’s the one leading the way. “Don’t be jealous, Sammy. You can only work with what you’re given.” They arrive at number 302, and Dean casually leans an elbow on the doorframe before knocking. 

The door opens to reveal an attractive girl in her mid-twenties. She’s petite, but curvy, with the same pale complexion and dark hair as Helena. Hers is shorter though, and tucked behind her ears. Her eyes widen as she takes in Dean, then Sam behind him. “Oh, um, you must be...” She extends a polite hand. 

Dean smiles and clasps it. “I’m Paul Rodgers, you’ve already spoken to my partner.” He straightens from his slouch with a practiced motion. “So nice to meet you.”

She brings a hand up to smooth her hair, then grins. “Likewise.” After a few seconds, Sam clears his throat behind them, and she seems to remember where they are. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Please, come in.” She leads them to a modest table tucked across from a small kitchenette. “Helena and Tony should be back in a little while, but feel free to have a seat.” 

The apartment is mostly unimpressive. Tiny, and a little too cramped for three people to be living there comfortably. The limited kitchenette takes up half of the main living space and there’s a small loveseat wedged into a corner that Dean assumes is supposed to be the living room. There’s a narrow hallway leading to a tiny bathroom and two other closed doors that are probably bedrooms. Dean sinks into the only available chair and lounges, leaving Sam to stand at his shoulder. “So Rachel, why don’t you tell us about how Tony and Helena met? It must have been a pretty legendary romance for him to have given up his fortune like that.” 

Rachel folds herself into the chair across from Dean. “Well, it was actually a little ordinary, if you’d believe it.” She rests her hands on the table and laces her fingers together. “Helena works as a nurse over at the medical center, and Tony came in to oversee some wing that the hospital was adding. I guess his family had donated the money or something.” She shrugs her shoulders. “That was pretty much it. They got to know each other while they were at work and, well,” she gestures to the room, “the rest is history.”

Dean leans forward, matching her posture. “Now, I heard that they just got engaged a couple weeks ago, right?” 

Rachel nods and lets out an amused breath. “Yeah, it was pretty crazy actually. They weren’t even dating for the longest time. Then, all of a sudden, they just get engaged out of the blue.” She gives him a _what’re you gonna do?_  look and picks at a bit of Formica on the tabletop. “Then, Tony’s family hears about it and cuts him off, kicks him out of his place that they were paying for, and he’s been living here with us ever since.” She sounds a little bitter about that last part, and judging from the living space, Dean can’t exactly blame her. 

Sam puts a hand on the back of Dean’s chair and tilts his head. “So, you’re saying that Helena and Tony showed absolutely no romantic interest in each other before they got engaged last week?”

Rachel starts. “Oh! No, of course not. No, they were _crazy_ about each other! Helena used to go on about him constantly, practically talked my ear off.” She smiles a little fondly. “He used to come over here all the time, too. He’d keep coming up with these dumb little excuses to see her. He was completely smitten, it was actually pretty adorable.” 

Dean shares a look with his brother. That doesn’t really fit in with their whole whammy theory. He clears his throat and turns back to Rachel. “I thought you said that the engagement was out of the blue. That they weren’t dating.” 

“Oh, they weren’t.” Apparently they look confused, because she hurries to explain. “They totally had the hots each other, but they weren’t actually dating or anything. It was ‘cause of his family, you see. Helena and Tony knew that they’d be pissed if anything serious happened, so they never did anything about it. I think they were planning on waiting until he was thirty, after the money, y’know?” She lowers her eyelashes and casts a suggestive glance at Dean. “I kept telling her to jump his bones. Whatever his folks didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right? But they’re both pretty religious so,” she shrugs, “nothing ever happened. Until the engagement, of course.” 

“Of course.” Dean nods understandingly and pulls his hands closer to his side of the table. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. This may sound a little weird, but you haven’t noticed any cold spots around your apartment lately, have you? Or smelled anything like sulfur?”

Rachel frowns. “Um, no. Is that important?”

Dean laughs. “Of course not. It’s just our bosses, y’know?” He mimes a quick mock strangulation with his tie. “Real hard-asses, so we gotta make sure we do a thorough job.” She giggles sympathetically and flutters her eyelashes again. Dean tosses a glance to his brother, but Sam looks contemplative. His eyes have already started roaming over the rest of the apartment, probably interested in getting free enough to search for hex bags uninterrupted. So Dean does his best to grab Rachel’s attention. “Now, we have been on the road all day and Simon here’s got a bladder like an eighty-year-old granny. Ain’t that right, Simon?” Sam looks like he wants to blacken Dean’s eye, but he nods. “You mind if he uses your bathroom? Meanwhile, I would just love to hear more about you. For the article.”

She nods excitedly and gestures Sam to the hallway, before launching into an unending onslaught of insignificant drivel. Dean does his absolute best to paste a pleasant expression on his face and nod at appropriate intervals. After what feels like seven hundred billion years, Sam finally catches his eye over the back of Rachel’s head and gives him the all-clear. 

Dean thanks his lucky stars (they’re usually pretty shit, luck-wise, but at least they’re working today) and holds a hand out to interrupt Rachel’s monologue about her semester abroad. “Thanks so much, but I think we’ve absolutely got enough for this part of the article.” She closes her mouth, but doesn’t look offended. He makes sure to hand her one of his ‘reporter’ business cards. “So, we’ll be off now, but feel free to call me if you remember anything else. Do you think that either of your roommates will be back by this evening?” Just as he’s finishing his sentence, the door clicks open and the aforementioned couple walks in. They both look a little startled at the strangers in their apartment and glance questioningly at Rachel.

She immediately stands to greet them. “Oh, hey guys. You’re back so early. This is Simon and Paul, they’re reporters from L.A., they wanted to do an interview on your engagement.”

Tony drops the multiple shopping bags that he’s carrying to extend a hand to both him and Sam. “Sorry about that, fellas. We were otherwise indisposed. This is about the whole trust fund thing, right?” 

Sam has the decency to look sheepish. “Yes, actually. We don’t mean to pry, Mr. Antonucci, but it’s pretty big news. You giving up everything so suddenly like that.” 

Dean clears his throat and steps in. “For _love_ , is what my partner means to say. Very romantic. Our readers would love to know the full story, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

That seems to flip the right switch, as Tony and Helena both smile and start making cow eyes at each other. Tony squeezes his fiancée’s hand and turns his attention back to Dean. “Please, call me Tony. We’d love to answer any questions you have. Right, honey?” 

Helena rests her head on Tony’s shoulder and grins. “Of course. We’re so excited about everything that’s happening, talking about it would actually be pretty great.”

Dean gives Sam a look, but his brother seems to be firmly in sincere witness mode right now. Sam motions towards the shopping bags at the couple’s feet. “Why don’t you two finish putting everything away? My partner and I can wait here for you until you’re done.” They laugh gratefully and head into one of the bedrooms, Rachel following behind them to explain the situation. 

Once they’re out of sight, Dean turns to his brother and drops the façade. “So?”

Sam sighs. “Nothing, man. No hex bags anywhere. I even scanned for EMF, just in case.” He quirks his lips. “Zilch.”

Dean hums and purses his lips. “Maybe it’s not a witch.”

“I guess. No idea what else it could be though.” 

Dean is saved from having to come up with a useful suggestion when Tony and Helena walk back into the main room. Helena looks uncertain about how the seating arrangement is going to work out with the lack of chairs, so Dean saves her the trouble. “You two should sit, we don’t mind standing. It’ll only be a few questions anyway.” They smile and do just that, Tony wrapping an arm around Helena’s shoulders.

Sam clasps his hands together and steps forward. “So, Rachel told us that the engagement was very sudden. Is that true?”

Helena giggles and ducks her head. “Yeah, you could say that. Believe it or not, we were originally planning on waiting. I didn’t want Tony’s family to get upset, and he wouldn’t have anywhere to live if they cut him off, so we thought it was best if we didn’t start anything serious until he was already settled.” She laughs and shares a loving look with the man beside her. “Guess that plan went out the window.”

Sam cocks his head. “What changed?”

Tony runs a hand over his hair. “Well, it was the strangest thing, actually. One day, out of the blue, I look over at Helena and I can’t look away. I mean, I was already head over heels for her,” Helena blushes at that, “but I could _not_ stop thinking about her. I tried to focus on my work, but a couple days went by and it just kept getting worse and worse. Eventually, it was all I could do not to simply grab her and drag her into a supply closet.” He laughs and places a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, that’s a little blunt.”

Helena places a hand over the one he’s still got on the table. “No, but it’s true. It was all sorts of crazy for me, too. I think I incorrectly placed about a dozen central lines because I was so worked up.” She lets out an embarrassed laugh. “It was pretty bad.”

Tony uncovers his eyes and looks back up at Sam, blushing. “It finally got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. My heart felt like it was practically aching, y’know? So, I just grabbed her and kissed her right there in the middle of the hallway. It got pretty heated and we ended up in the on-call room. And then, uh, you know…” He blushes even redder. 

Dean starts to make a supportive comment, but Sam cuts him off with an intense glare. Whatever. Sam’s a prude. He wasn’t gonna say anything lewd, just _“Yeah, buddy”_ or something. Dean reluctantly keeps his mouth shut and coughs into his hand. “So, the engagement happened after the, uh…” Damn, what was an appropriate word that Sam wouldn’t kill him for? “…event?” 

Tony looks a little embarrassed. It’s a slightly different flavor of embarrassed than the whole virgin thing from a few seconds before. “Uh, not exactly. It was a pretty intense moment, you see, and I guess I just got a little caught up in it.” He shifts in his chair awkwardly. “We kept saying all these things to each other. It was like everything I’d ever thought about Helena just _needed_ to be said. I looked into her eyes, and I just couldn’t stop myself. I proposed before we even, uh…started.”

Helena nods and picks up where he left off. “It’s true, and I said ‘yes’ immediately. It was nuts, I’d spent all this time holding back, but in the moment it was like I just _couldn’t_ anymore.” She laughs. “And then Tony literally just picked up his cell phone and called his parents and told them. Point blank.” 

Tony clears his throat spreads his hands. “Again, not the smartest move I’ve ever made, but what can I say? After it was over, I was thinking a little more clearly, but the damage had already been done.” He gives Helena a tender smile. “And I couldn’t undo the mess I’d made with my family, but I think it ended up pretty okay.”

Helena’s dark eyes glitter with emotion as she stares back at her fiancé. “We both knew that what had happened was kinda crazy, but we loved each other, and we decided to let the engagement stick. At least something good could come out of the whole thing, y’know?”

Dean is getting a little uncomfortable with all the gooey-eyed romance, so he claps his hands together. Loudly. “Great. Well, I think that’s all we need. Thank you so much for your time, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

Sam gives them a polite smile. “Congratulations Mr. Antonucci, Ms. Cohen.”

Helena smiles warmly back. “Please, you should call me Mrs. Antonucci. By next week, that’ll be the case anyway.” She turns to Tony and gives him a soft kiss. 

Dean chuckles awkwardly. “Uh, right. Antonucci it is.” He squeezes a hand onto Sam’s shoulder and guides him to the door. “Good luck with all the—everything.” He steers them into the hallway as fast as he can and clicks the door shut behind them.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Jesus Christ, any longer and they would’ve put on When Harry Met Sally or something.”

Sam doesn’t look up from his laptop screen. “You are the epitome of tolerance and sensitivity, Dean.”

“Friggin’ ridiculous is what it was.” Dean falls back onto his stupid, golden bed with a thump. He’d removed his blazer and tie, but his khakis are still sticking to the backs of his knees. And the crappy motel A/C is chugging along as hard as it can, but he barely feels a breeze. “So, no hex bags. Survey says?”

Sam screws his lips to one side and taps away at the keyboard in front of him. “Well, if it isn’t witches, then what else causes people to fall in love?” He squints at the screen. “Maybe a Pagan god?”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “Like that scarecrow creeper in Indiana? What’s it called?”

“Vanir.”

“Yeah, vanir.” Dean laces his fingers and rests them on his chest. “It was making the crops grow. And then those winter solstice nutjobs were causing sunny weather. You think there’s one that does love?” 

Sam shrugs and shuts his laptop closed. “Like a cupid? Guess it’s possible. Only, we haven’t seen any sacrifices so far.” He had also removed his blazer the first chance he got. Right now it’s tossed over the back of his chair, but Sam’s still wearing his tie. He’s loosened it though, and unbuttoned just enough buttons on his dress shirt to give Dean a tantalizing glimpse of his tan neck. “What about the trickster? Or—another trickster I guess.”

Dean makes a face. “Doubt it.”

“Tony _was_ rich, he could’ve been a dick.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting punished. Even if someone did that to them on purpose, he seemed to be pretty stoked about it.” 

Sam nods and rests his head in his hands. “Yeah, makes sense. So, we’re back at square one.” He tilts his head and opens one eye. “We could call Bobby.” 

Dean lets out a sharp breath. “Yeah, that’s exactly who I want to talk to right now.” 

“Dude, you’re pissed at Bobby? Really?” Sam looks at Dean like he’s an idiot.

“No, I’m pissed at _you_. Bobby just falls under my pissiness umbrella.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever, I’m calling him. Feel free to be pissed over there.” He flips open his phone, punches in a few numbers, and holds it up to his ear. “Hey Bobby, it’s Sam. Dean’s here too, I’m gonna put you on speaker.” He tosses the phone onto the table. 

“What do you fool boys need now? I’m busy.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, busy doing exactly what I told you I didn’t want you to do.” 

Sam shoots him a sharp glare from across the room, but Bobby apparently doesn’t need the help. “Oh, shut up, ya idjit. If you really think that your brother and I are gonna take a powder on this, you’re dumber’n you look.” Dean didn’t look dumb. Bobby looked dumb. Especially with his stupid, dumb hats. “Now shut your trap about it, before I do it for you.” 

Sam looks stupidly pleased at Dean’s scolding and he sounds like he’s holding back a slight laugh. “We actually called about the case, Bobby. People are falling in love all of a sudden, but we can’t find any hex bags anywhere. Any thoughts?”

Bobby is silent for a moment, but Dean can hear the sound of rustling papers on the other end of the phone. “Hmm. How many witnesses you interviewed so far?”

Sam throws Dean a guilty look. “Um, just the one couple so far.”

“The fuck are you doing wasting my time, boy? I’m ass to elbows in this,” he pauses, most likely for Dean’s benefit, “ _thing_ you’ve got me working on. Generally speaking, hunters do the interviews first, then look for a pattern.” He sounds painfully sarcastic. “Not like you two have been doin’ this your whole lives or anything.” 

Sam still looks a little guilty but forges ahead. “It’s just, we don’t have any idea what to look for when we do the other interviews. We’re kinda stuck here, Bobby.” 

Bobby grumbles on the other end of the line, and Dean can hear the clink of a glass. “Alright, you’re over in Bellflower, right? I got a contact there. Her name’s Candace, but I think she goes by ‘Lady C’ or some other nonsense.” Sam and Dean share a look. “She’s a Wiccan—that’d be a _good_ witch, Dean, so shut up—and I think she specializes in love charms and the like. Tell her Bobby Singer sent you, she’ll help you out.”

Sam smiles. “Thanks, Bobby.” Dean rumbles out a vague assent from his side of the room as well.

“Just don’t bother me with anything else unless it’s _important_. You think you boys can handle yourselves for a full day?”

Sam laughs out loud this time. “Sure thing, Bobby. Thanks again.” He clicks the phone shut and gives Dean an insufferable look. “Well, what do you know? Square two.”

Dean just rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

‘Lady C’s’ storefront is just as ridiculous as her fake name. It’s a small space, smack-dab in the center of a mini mall, and wedged between an antique shop and a Baskin-Robbins. The glass windows are draped in black and purple curtains and her rates and services are spelled out in spidery gold calligraphy on the front door. “Well, this looks real,” Dean says, dry as sand.

Sam does his best to defend the space, but he looks just as unimpressed as Dean feels. “She knows Bobby. She must be able to help somehow.”

“Yeah, or maybe Bobby and her did the horizontal mambo a few years back, and he was blinded by her _gifts_.” Dean winks. “And I ain’t talking about ESP.” 

Sam laughs despite himself and pushes open the door. “You really think Bobby and her slept together?”

Dean follows his brother amidst the sounds of tinkling bells. “I told you, Sammy. Pussy.” He makes his way into the shop. “I was with this girl on this boat once, must have been twenty-three. And she had this unbelievable body. Legs up to here.” He plants his hand somewhere around his forehead. “Swear to god, we were halfway to Mexico before I came to my senses. Had to hitch my way back.” He gives Sam a look. “Boat-hitching, Sam. Seriously. Dad was _pissed_.” 

Sam complains loudly, and often, that he hates Dean’s stories, but he looks pretty amused at that one. “Well, let’s try real hard not to insult her, alright, Dean? Even if she is one of Bobby’s old girlfriends.” They step around a bookshelf and Sam freezes. “Or not.” 

Dean stretches his neck around to see what Sam’s talking about. The girl behind the desk is young. Really young. Practically a teenager. She’s got long, red hair piled into a controlled mess on the top of her head, and she’s wearing some over-the-top black get-up that perfectly matches the cheesy feel of the rest of the shop.  

She smiles brightly when she catches sight of them. “ _Namaste,_ travelers. I sense that you are seeking guidance, how may I help you this fine day?”

Dean glances at Sam, then back to the girl. “Uh, hi. Is your mom here? We’re looking for Lady C.”

Sam steps up to his side. “We’re friends of Bobby Singer’s.”

The girl rolls her eyes at the mention of Bobby’s name. “Jesus Christ, that old coot’s still kicking around?” She lets out a sultry laugh and leans over the counter. “Bobby Singer. Never thought I’d hear that name again.” She’s completely dropped the tourist act and there’s a certainty to her movements that makes her seem older than she looks. She extends a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m ‘Lady C’, but you can call me Candace.” She smiles and puts on a mocking voice, “I know, I know, ‘I look so young’ right? I get it all the fucking time, it’s the worst.” Sam and Dean take turns warily shaking her proffered hand. She crosses her arms on the counter raises an eyebrow. “So you two are hunters then?” 

Sam seems to recover fastest. “Uh, yeah, we are. My name’s Sam, this is my brother, Dean. Bobby said you might be able to help us out with something.”

She purses her bright red lips and winks at Sam. “I’ll do my best.”

While his brother is busy re-explaining their case to Little Miss Sunshine, Dean takes the opportunity to scope out the rest of her shop. It’s just as Halloween store reject as the front of it implies. There are bins of ‘mystic stones’ and little plastic talismans piled into boxes by shape. Some of the geometry is actually correct, Dean can pick out a Sumatran strength charm and an Egyptian prosperity amulet just by looking, but the cheap plastic makes it look like they’ve come from a fifty-cent machine. There are some feathers and scraps of gauzy fabric dangling from the ceiling, but nothing to imply that Candace is anything more than a dime store imitation Wiccan. He takes a moment to wonder how she met Bobby, and how she impressed him enough to get a spot on his contact list. Or, maybe Bobby’s just getting back at Dean for being ungrateful. Wouldn’t be completely out of character for the guy.

Back at the counter, Sam has finished breaking down their progress on the case, and Candace is tapping her long fingernails against the glass. “Hmm, that is interesting. I have heard of love charms that can do what you’re describing, but all witches that I know of have to use a hex bag in order to curse someone like that. Or a coin.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No, I didn’t see any coins either.”

She hums again. “There are rumors that a few witches, really powerful ones, can cast spells without any components. But they’d still have to come into contact with their victims, close range.” She gives Sam a disbelieving look. “Not to mention that any witch that powerful would have to be _hundreds_ of years old. I’m not sure it’s even possible. They’re just stories." 

Sam nods dejectedly. “Well, thank you for your help anyway. We really appreciate it.”

She smiles and runs a hand down his shoulder. “Don’t look so glum, handsome. You’ll ruin that gorgeous face. I didn’t say that I couldn’t help at all, did I?” She turns and flits into the back room, and Dean decides right then that he dislikes her.   

Sam still looks pleasantly charmed by the compliment when Dean slinks up behind him. “Well, someone’s got a crush.”

Sam snorts and raises an eyebrow. “Are you actually jealous?” 

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. “No, of course not. You should hit that, dude. You and Jailbait would probably have lovely, fake-Wiccan kids.” 

Sam’s grin widens and his dimples pop. “Oh my God, you’re actually jealous. I don’t think this has ever happened before.” He seems thrilled, and his smugness is practically unbearable. “This is fantastic. I’m taking a mental picture, right now, so I don’t ever forget this moment in time.” He goes to snake an arm around Dean’s waist, but is interrupted by Candace’s return. Typical. 

She has a triumphant look on her face and sets a small box onto the counter. “This, boys, is one of the rarest things in my entire shop.” Dean thinks that a geode would probably fit that bill as well, but decides to politely keep his mouth shut. She pulls out a little stone charm, it’s made of dark granite and carved into a little figurine. “This zemi will glow warm in the presence of any other magic. All you have to do is get close enough, and you’ll be able to tell if something’s enchanted.” She hands it to Sam. “Should work on hex bags as well.”

Sam rolls the stone piece between his fingers. “Can we test it? Do you have anything else that’s magical around here?”

She gives them a regretful look and closes the lid of the, now empty, box. “Unfortunately, no. I do consider myself a Wiccan, but it’s such a slippery slope with magic, you know? I try my best to stick with things that are as harmless as possible.” She taps the top of the box. “But I can promise you that it works. Money-back guarantee.” She winks again. At Sam. Because she’s the worst. 

Dean clears his throat. “Well, that sounds awesome. Thanks a bunch.” He gives her a tight smile and makes his way out of the store. Sam stays behind for a few seconds, probably apologizing for his brother’s rudeness. Or proposing. Whatever. Then he exits the store, bells tinkling again, to stand beside Dean on the sidewalk. 

He pulls the charm out of his pocket. “What do you think?” 

Dean snatches it out of his hand and holds it up to the light. “What’d she call it? A zemi?” 

“Zemi, yeah. They’re Caribbean spirit carvings, kind of like a totem. They’re supposed to house the magic of the god whose image is depicted.”

Dean tosses it back to his brother. “Good enough for me. Let’s get interviewing.” 

Sam nods and pockets the stone, then glances around the deserted mini mall before ducking his head to capture Dean’s lips in a quick kiss. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” 

Dean sputters and shoves him off, then kicks his brother in the shin. Hard. “Public, Sam. We’re in public.”

Sam just laughs and heads over to where they parked Baby, looking ridiculously happy. Dean would be more annoyed, but it’s been a very long time since his brother has been in anything even _resembling_ a good mood. He thinks back to how excited Sam was over his and Bobby’s newest plan to save him…and Dean allows himself to hope.  

Just the tiniest bit.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Alright, so I was thinking we’d head over to the Riveras’ next. They’re the only ones with an actual police report, so I figure that if we’re gonna find anything, they’re our best bet.” Dean’s talking around a very large mouthful of hot dog, but Sam nods, so apparently he understands enough to get the gist. He swallows and leans against the brick of the Gas-n’-Sip where they’d picked up their lunch. Bellflower seems to be a decently sized city, but it’s still got kind of a weird ‘one-horse’ feel to it. He absent-mindedly taps his ring against the plastic of his water bottle and eyes his brother’s depressingly bare hot dog. “You know, you’re supposed to put condiments and shit on it. That’s what makes it good.” He takes another bite of his own. “Thought you liked all that vegetable crap anyways.” 

Sam wraps up the last bite of his lunch and tosses it. Then he smiles, closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the building. “Yeah, well you’re not the one who has to deal with all your extra onions.”  

He’s about to shoot off a hilarious comeback, when he sees a familiar-looking older man step out of an office building up the street. He stares for a second, then smacks the back of his hand into his brother’s chest. “Hey, Sam. That our guy?” 

Sam squints at the figure. “Yeah, I think that’s Edgeman alright.” He cocks his head. “You think we should talk to him first?” 

Dean crumples up his napkin and throws it into the trash. “Nah, these interviews are gonna take way too long as it is. You go after Gary Condit. I’ll handle Lucy and Ricky.” 

Sam just gives him a weird look. 

“What?”

“Gary Condit?” Sam snorts. “That’s a little obscure, even for you.”

Dean flaps his hand at the retreating politician. “Would you just—? He’s getting away or whatever.” 

Sam grins and holds up his hands in surrender, then starts jogging up the street after the older man. 

He gets about forty feet away before Dean calls out, “Hey, Sam!” His brother flips around to face him. “Clinton and Lewinsky!” Sam tosses his head back and laughs, giving Dean two thumbs-up for the better reference. Then he turns and catches up to the senator. Dean can’t hear what they’re saying, but the man nods pleasantly, and Sam follows him into his town car.

Dean watches the dark sedan drive down the street and out of sight before he pushes himself off the wall and heads towards Baby. “Looks like it’s just you and me, sweetheart,” he coos. “Let’s go see if we can find any bad ju-ju.” He slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door before twisting the key in the ignition. Baby purrs sweetly, and he revs her into a growl just to hear the sound. Sweetest music his ears have ever experienced. “Alright.” He glances at the haphazard notes that Sam’s left in the car. “376 Somerset Blvd.” He smoothly pulls into traffic and heads west, Baby’s tires eating up the asphalt as they go.

376 Somerset turns out to be a quaint, little white house in a row of quaint, little white houses. Dean contemplates grabbing his FBI badge, but he’s still in his reporter duds from earlier, so he figures regular detective will have to do. He hops up the couple of steps in front of the porch, then raps his knuckles against the edge of the screen door.  

A timid-looking woman answers the door. She’s Hispanic and looks to be about forty, with coffee-colored skin and long dark hair. She nervously twists a hand into the fabric of her dress. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dean gives her his best reassuring smile and holds out his badge. “I’m Detective Plant from the Lakewood Sheriff’s Department. Are you Mrs. Rose Rivera?” The woman nods, but still looks up at him with those big, frightened eyes. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about the incident earlier this week involving your husband, a Mr. Esteban Rivera. May I come in?”

Rose’s hand trembles slightly on the doorframe. “I do nothing. The cops already come here. Esteban is gone.”

“No, I know, ma’am. You’re not in any trouble, I can promise you that.” Dean tucks his badge into his jacket pocket and holds up his hands. “I just need to ask you a few questions. That’s it.”

“I already tell the other policeman when he come here.” 

Dean’s really starting to wish that he and Sam had traded places. A little bit of Spanish would probably come in really fucking handy right about now. “It’s a different department, Mrs. Rivera. We just have to be thorough. Please, I promise it’ll only take a few minutes.” 

She finally nods and unlatches the screen door, backing into the hallway and letting Dean over the threshold. “You speak to Carlos too, _sí?”_  

Dean ducks under a wind chime as she leads him to the couch in her living room. “He’s here?” 

She nods again. “I go get him.”

As Rose passes through another hallway and out of sight, Dean scans the living room. He’s about to reach into his pocket for the zemi when he realizes that he left it with Sam. Awesome. He guesses the magic search will have to be old-school for this one. He wanders around the room, scanning the little doo-dads and what’s-its the Riveras have on their shelves. There’s a carefully framed picture of Rose holding hands with a man with a shaved head—probably Esteban. They’re both smiling and Dean is reminded of the neighbors’ statements that he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He examines the bookshelves next, but nothing seems to jump out at him. There are a couple of seashells, some bundles of potpourri, and some pressed flowers. Higher up, there are a few patron saint candles with wicks that have never been lit, and a there’s a small, upright clock in the shape of a pineapple on the very top. No hex bags, no coins. Again. Great. He gives up, empty-handed, and sinks into the soft cushions of the small couch to wait.

It’s only a few minutes before Rose returns with Carlos. He looks surprisingly similar to the picture of Esteban—it’s clear they’re related—but he carries himself with the same timid disposition that Rose does. He’s a little bit younger than his sister-in-law though, late thirties probably, and has a thick head of dark hair. He reaches out to shake Dean’s hand with his left, as his right is in a sling. “Nice to meet you. My name is Carlos. Rose says you have more questions?” 

“Uh, likewise.” Dean quirks his lips and points to the man’s sling. “You get that from…?”

Carlos nods sadly. “ _Sí_. Esteban, he—he was very angry.” He slides down the collar of his shirt to show Dean the patch job. Obvious bullet wound, but it looks like it went straight through muscle and it’s been well treated. Hospital handiwork for sure.

“You’re lucky. Should heal up fine.” Carlos nods sadly again. Dean clears his throat and sits back down. “So, your brother, Esteban. He did this after he found you two _together_.” Dean tries to sound as delicate as possible. “In bed, right?”

Rose’s eyes well up with tears. “It was an accident. I did no mean to.” Carlos looks at her gently and grabs her trembling hand. She squeezes it, but it doesn’t seem to do much to calm her down. 

“Of course not, Mrs. Rivera. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

She clamps her eyes shut and a few tears trickle down her face. “One day, I just start feeling. I never to my husband. He’s good man.” Her breath hitches and she continues sobbing in rapid fire Spanish. “ _Que no lo hacía a propósito. Era como por arte de magia. Era como si mi corazón estaba perjudicando_.”

Dean’s pretty much at a loss for what to do and glances to Carlos for help. The other man rubs a soothing hand over Rose’s back before explaining. “It sounds crazy, but it just happened. We would never, I swear. Esteban is—” Carlos swallows and looks up. “Esteban, he is my brother.” 

Dean nods and clasps his hands between his legs. “Of course. I believe you.” It seems to calm them both down a bit, and Dean waits for Rose to start breathing normally before he asks his next question. “Now, your neighbors went on record as saying that Esteban was not a violent man. Is that true?” Both Rose and Carlos stay devastatingly still. Dean’s eyes narrow and he closely examines both of their expressions before repeating himself. “Did Esteban ever show any signs of violence before this incident?”

Rose’s hand trembles again and Carlos wraps a comforting arm around her back. She swallows a few times before responding, but she won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “My husband, he a good man.” She tugs at her own sleeve and Dean can briefly make out a patch of purpled skin before it’s covered again. “A good man.” Carlos rubs at her shoulder and she reaches up to grasp his hand in thanks.

Dean nods. “I see.” He pushes himself up from the couch. “Well, thank you so much for your cooperation, Mrs. Rivera,” he turns to Carlos, “Mr. Rivera. I’ll leave you to it.” He sees himself out, but manages to catch a final glimpse of the two of them as he exits. They’re gently smiling at each other, and Rose closes her eyes and rests her head against Carlos’s arm.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

By the time Dean gets back to the room, Sam is already stripped down to his t-shirt and lying on his own bed. Dean glances at him, then fiddles with his keys and shuts the door. “How’d you get back?”

“Senator dropped me off.” Sam lifts his brows. “Got to ride in the fancy town car and everything.” Dean chuckles and his brother raises himself to a sitting position. “You find anything?”

Dean sighs and collapses into the crappy motel chair. “Nada. Absolutely nada.”

“ _Absolutamente_.” Dean quirks an eyebrow, but Sam just looks amused. “It’s ‘absolutamente’ nada.” 

“Well, gee. Thanks, Zorro. What about you?” 

Sam sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Nothing. No magic at all. Or, maybe the little stone thing is broken. Who knows?” He gets a thoughtful look in his eye. “Do you think we have anything in the trunk that we can test it out on?” 

Dean scrunches his face. “I don’t think so. I mean, we’ve got ingredients for spells and stuff, but nothing that I can think of on its own.” 

Sam hums in reluctant agreement, then changes the subject. “So, the senator is living with his former secretary, now girlfriend, Rhonda. They’re ludicrously happy and he doesn’t even seem to care that his career is in the toilet and he’s living in a tiny studio apartment.”

Dean twirls his keys around his fingers. “Yeah, happy endings all around. Apparently Esteban Rivera _was_ , in fact, a wife-beating asshole, and it’s pretty fucking great that he’s locked up now. She’s in good hands with that Carlos guy and I think he genuinely cares about her. So, whoopee. Everyone’s happy and we’re still stuck.” 

Sam gets that thoughtful look again, before snapping back a moment later. “Well, we’ve got one more interview before we’re completely done. I say we get it out of the way, and if there’s still no sign of anything unnatural, we let this one go. Maybe they’re all just coincidences.” 

Dean groans. “Yeah, ‘cause how often does that happen?” He stretches out to reach the mini fridge without standing. “Well, let’s at least do it tomorrow. I’m gonna need a beer or seven before we go keeping up with the Joneses.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The enormous, well-kept McMansion that Christopher Weiss and Duncan Allard are apparently living in is nicer than the last seven places Dean’s slept in. Combined. He levels a discerning eye over the estate, then scoffs at Sam. “Well, it sure doesn’t seem like these guys are suffering much.”

Sam gives him one of his politically correct stares. “Christopher had a family before this and Duncan had a job. If there’s anything magical going on here, they’ve been robbed of both of those.” He turns to stare at the house once more. “It’s not all about money, Dean.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dean sighs regretfully. “The last time we were flush from hustling, I dropped a fifty on one of those Thai massages.” He lifts his eyebrows and wiggles his fingers at Sam. Just to make sure that his brother knows _exactly_ what kind of massage Dean is alluding to. “No happy ending. Wasn’t even worth it.” He sniffs, and nonchalantly adds, “Yours are better. And free.”  

Sam looks flattered, despite his insistence on remaining professional, but manages to collect himself enough to nag, “Not exactly the same thing, Dean.” 

“I’m just saying, Sammy.” Dean cracks his knuckles and presses the doorbell. It’s got one of those stupid tinny melodies instead of a regular _ding-dong_. What is it about the suburbs? “…Just saying.” 

The door opens to reveal a clean-cut man with coiffed blond hair and a sweater vest. He smiles pleasantly at them before another man joins him and wraps a casual arm around his waist. The second guy is African American, very well-groomed, and wearing a purple tie. They look really…well, _gay_ , to put it bluntly. The blond man smiles again. “Hello. Are you two selling something?”

“Uh, no.” Dean straightens up a little. They’re wearing nicer suits than yesterday, because apparently Sam thought that the gay couple would respond better to a more professional look. Like all gay dudes have a radar for impressive reporters or something. Dean thinks it’s pretty dumb, but going along with Sam’s stupid requests usually means less bitching for Dean, so whatever. At least it’s cooler out today. “We actually wanted to speak to Mr. Allard about the loss of his job.” 

Sam steps in, probably not trusting Dean to handle the proper legal-ese. “We’re reporters from the Los Angeles Times, and we believe that you,” he looks to each of the men until the second one raises his hand, “you, Mr. Allard, have a wrongful termination lawsuit on your hands.” He puts on one of his best earnest witness faces. “If it’s true that you were let go because of your sexual orientation.”

The man, Duncan, sighs. “Look, thank you for your interest, but I’m an attorney myself.” He pauses, then corrects himself. “ _Was_ an attorney myself. They called it a downsizing and I was the last hired. So whether or not my _orientation_ was an issue, there isn’t anything I can do about it from a legal standpoint.”

It’s obvious that the couple is losing interest and they didn’t come up with a Plan B. Dean is about ready to scrap the whole thing and call it a day, but Sam gets a scarily determined look on his face. It’s one of his ‘Fuck it, what is there to lose?’ ones that always make Dean nervous. Sam drops his shoulders and puts on his most convincing kicked puppy act. “Of course, Mr. Allard. It’s just that,” he actually scuffs his shoe against the concrete, “it would really mean a lot for us to be able to tell this story. Even if there’s no legal recourse at this time, it’s still important to get the facts out there for the world to read. Discrimination will continue to be accepted until people are aware of what’s going on.” He finally looks up, and Dean catches a terrifying gleam in his brother’s eye. “Especially considering,” he wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, “that my partner and I completely understand what you’re going through.”

No.  _No_. No no no. God fucking dammit. But Sam’s already said it, and he’s got the couple eating out of his metaphorical hand. The blond one, Christopher, has even placed both of his hands over his heart and is giving his boyfriend one of those stupid doting looks. Which is apparently unnecessary, because Duncan’s face has softened as well. “Of course. I didn’t realize. It’s very brave of you and your partner to want to come out with a story like this. We’d love to give you an interview. Anything that can help.” He ushers them into the house and Dean waits until both of the men’s backs are turned before grinding his heel into Sam’s toes, as hard as he can. Luckily for Dean, it’s much easier to inflict pain in dress shoes than in their usual boots. But he’s still kind of weirdly proud that Sam only barely flinches. He does, however, dig his fingers into the meat of Dean’s shoulder in retribution.

They’re swept into a living room that’s just as impressive and beautifully furnished as what little Dean can see of the rest of the house. They take the offered sofa while Christopher and Duncan choose the two plush armchairs on the other side of the mahogany coffee table. As soon as Dean sits down, Sam decides to settle in as close to his side as possible, placing his left hand high on Dean’s thigh. Dean grimaces a bit, then tries to force his lips into as convincing a smile as he can muster. If his face looks more like a death mask than a happy, gay reporter’s, at least no one makes any mention of it. Dean’s hand twitches a bit and he slaps it over the one Sam’s got searing a brand onto his leg. He also makes sure to squeeze his brother’s fingers just this side of too hard. But Sam doesn’t actually do anything except try to suppress an amused smile. Because apparently the little fucker’s enjoying this.

Duncan and Christopher ask Sam something and he responds in kind, but Dean can barely focus on their words at all. His brother’s tantalizingly warm body is pressed all up against his right side, shoulders to knees, and he can feel every bit of the lean muscle that Sam’s hiding under his suit every time he breathes. Not to mention that, because of the short distance, Dean’s entire peripheral vision is filled with Sam’s stupid, flippy hair. He can even smell him from this close, Sam’s shampoo and aftershave and just a hint of the mouth-wateringly distracting skin underneath. 

Sam nudges him with his shoulder, jostling him out of the dirty slide his thoughts were starting to fall into. “Isn’t that right, Dean?” Sam gives him a confused look, as if he has no idea why Dean could possibly be preoccupied right now. The little bitch.

“Right. Absolutely.” Dean clears his throat and focuses as best he can on the situation. “I whole-heartedly agree.”

He seems to have covered decently enough, as the men across from him both nod. Duncan even starts up again. “So, how can we help you two? What would you like to know?”

Sam smiles beside him and pulls out his sheepish act one more time. “Well, I’d actually love to start with how you two got together. If that’s alright.”

Christopher looks elated. No, actually that doesn’t even begin to cover it. He looks like he’s about to crap rainbows and pixie dust. “Oh, isn’t that romantic?” He turns to Duncan and clasps a hand around his forearm. “I would love to tell you boys. It was like a fairy tale.” Duncan seems to be more composed than his boyfriend, but he gives the other man a fond smile. Christopher claps his hands and centers himself before beginning his story. “Well, we first met at work. Duncan was helping me manage a lawsuit at the time and we just hit it off. We would see each other every day when we were working together, and then once everything was over, we made sure to keep meeting up so that we wouldn’t lose touch.” 

Christopher pauses for a moment. “You see, I was in a…” he diplomatically inclines his head, “another…relationship at the time.” Yup, that would be the wife and kids Sam had mentioned.  _Another relationship_. Well, that certainly was a way of putting it. Christopher continues on, “We never crossed any lines, of course. We’d go out golfing or something for a couple hours every day, but nothing ever actually happened.” He glances at Duncan and his grin gets wider. Apparently he’s come to his favorite part. “But then, one day, I looked into his eyes and it was like this switch had just flipped. I looked at him, and I just couldn’t hold anything back anymore. I broke up with my—my significant other,” he clears his throat, “and we moved in together right after that.” He sighs pleasantly. “It was magical.”

Sam chooses that moment to start rubbing his fingers in little circles along Dean’s inseam, because obviously he believes that this would be the best possible time for Dean to pop wood. As if the two gay guys across from them would have no idea what was going on. Dean’s gonna throttle his brother when they get out of here. Sam’s face remains irritatingly professional though. “And this was, what? A couple weeks ago?” 

“One week actually.” Christopher holds out a hand to forestall any judgmental comments. “I know it sounds way too sudden to be living together like this. But when you find the One,” he gives Duncan another tender look, “you don’t want to wait one more minute than you have to.” He smiles and turns his attention back to Sam. “Isn’t that true for you two as well? You seem like you’re so good together.”           

Dean chuckles and turns to Sam for some well-deserved payback. “Oh, absolutely. Ain’t that right, honey?” He doesn’t remember if they’d given the couple their real first names or not, or if Sam had said anything while Dean was zoning out, so he decides to stick with pet names. Plus, it’s way funnier. “Me and my man here, we’re _crazy_ about each other. Right, lover? Can’t get us apart with a cold hose and a ten-foot pole.” Dean takes a second to wonder if fluttering his eyelashes is going a step too far, then decides to go for it anyway. “Why don’t you tell ‘em, babe?” 

He expects Sam to flush, or at least get slightly uncomfortable after Dean’s ridiculous statements. But instead, Sam just looks at him. He looks directly into Dean’s eyes and gets that heartfelt, way-too-sincere expression on his face. “You’re absolutely right, Christopher.” Sam doesn’t break from his gaze, even as he’s ostensibly talking to the man on the other side of the table. “He’s the love of my life.”

Suddenly, it isn’t funny anymore. All of Dean’s prepared jabs shrivel up and die under the weight of his brother’s terrifyingly convincing words. That too-familiar, crushing, suffocating pressure settles in like ice around Dean’s heart and begins to squeeze. Sam’s kidding. Dean’s sure he’s kidding. He was just going along with Dean’s joke and he went a step further. Good for him. He wins. The phantom grip tightens around Dean’s ribcage and it starts getting a little tough to breathe. 

He turns to Duncan because he seems to be the only other sane man in the room. “Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” Dean tries to smile normally, but something feels off. He can’t be sure if Duncan can tell anything’s wrong, but he doesn’t quite have the energy to give a fuck. The other man nods and gives him some directions, which Dean politely listens to, then immediately ignores. 

He makes his way down the hallway, just enough to walk out of sight, then gets to work. Sam had handed him the zemi before they left the motel that morning, so he sticks his hand in the appropriate pocket while strolling around the rest of the house. He flicks the EMF meter on for a moment, just to check, but it remains just as silent as it did yesterday. Alright, he’s officially calling no ghosts on this one. Dean walks one final loop around the deserted parts of the house, fingers around the stone, but it doesn’t heat up in the slightest. So, looks like no magic either. Thankfully, the little walk’s been long enough that he’s managed to get his panic down to the usual ‘I’m probably going to Hell’ levels as opposed to the new ‘My brother thinks I’m his true love’ bullshit that was suddenly heaped on him a few minutes ago. 

He heads back into the living room just as Sam’s finishing up the rest of the fake interview. Sam thanks the two men and shakes their hands before making his way to Dean’s side. Dean smiles cordially as well, but doesn’t exactly trust his voice right now. They’re heading to the door when Duncan stops them. “You know, since you two are together, I’d love to give you something. If you don’t mind, of course.” Sam and him share a glance, then shrug. Duncan grabs a little fabric beanbag out of a decorative bowl. “This was given to us as a housewarming gift, and it’s so lovely, I’d like you to have it. As thanks for the story.”  

Sam accepts the present, rolling it in his fingers for a bit before leaning close to Dean’s ear and murmuring, “Potpourri.” Great. As if the day couldn’t get any gayer. Dean nods his thanks and they finally make their way out of there. 

The front door shuts behind them, but Sam doesn’t remove his arm from Dean’s back until he shoves it off himself. His brother actually looks affronted, so Dean shoves him again for good measure. Sam furrows his brow and rubs at his arm. “What the hell is your problem?”

If there were any justice in the universe, Dean’s glare would be melting Sam into a little puddle. “What the fuck do you think?” They’re far enough away from the house now that he’s not worried about being overheard. “What the fuck was with all that boyfriend shit?” 

Sam looks incredulous. “That’s what you’re so worked up about? Seriously?” He even has the audacity to laugh. “Why do you care so much, man? It’s not like they knew we were brothers or anything.” 

Dean gapes. “You wanna say that a little louder, Sam? I don’t think they heard you over in Chicago!”

“Dude, you pull that shit on me all the time.” He spreads his hands. “What’s the difference if I do it?”

Dean feels like he’s one twitch away from exploding like a fucking A-bomb. “The difference? The difference, Sam, is that all those other times were before we were actually f—” He violently clamps his mouth shut, suddenly very aware of where they’re standing. “Just shut up and get in the fucking car, Sam.” 

Sam looks rattled. And stubborn. But Dean’s furious ‘Dad’ glare actually seems to work for once in his life. Sam simply shoves the little, girly-smelling, flowery whatever in the pocket of his suit jacket and yanks open the passenger door. Fortunately, by the time Dean gets in next to him, he seems relatively calm. Sometimes Dean’s petty lashing-out affects Sam and they end up pissed and snarling at each other, but this time he looks unexpectedly chill about it. Thank god. Dean turns to say something, apologize maybe, but Sam just gives him a quick, tight smile. Great, no explanation needed. Apparently it’s Dean’s lucky day.

Dean lets out a breath and continues in a more placid tone. “So, we officially calling this one a bust?” 

Sam chews his lip for a minute, then nods. “Yeah. Seems pretty normal to me. Guess the others were all coincidences or something.” 

“Well, it had to happen sometime.” Dean gives his brother a quick smile, before starting the car and weaving back into the late morning traffic.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Dean waves his key card in front of the lock until it beeps, then shoves the door open with one shoulder. “Hey, Sam. What do you say we stay here one more night? We’re already paid anyway. Might as well relax before heading out again.” 

He’d dropped Sam off at the motel a little while ago before driving a few minutes up the road to refill Baby’s tank. They were planning on heading out right away, and Sam had agreed to pack up the stuff while Dean went on his gas run, but Dean had changed his mind on the short ride back. “Feels like we could use a break after the case. Or non-case. Whatever.” He finally gets the door fully open, but stops speaking once he gets a full view of the room. Sam hasn’t packed anything—a few of their dirty clothes are still strewn around the bathroom door and Sam’s Taurus is sitting on the table in plain sight. The room itself is dark, like Sam used to keep it after one of his vision migraines. But the most important thing Dean can make out is the familiar silhouette of his brother. Sam is sitting on the closest bed, head in his hands and his shoulders slumped, with pieces of his cell phone littering the ground at his feet. Dean takes a few cautious steps inside. “You break your phone, man?” 

“Bobby called.” 

Dean waits, but Sam doesn’t say anything more. “Yeah?” He picks his way around the shattered plastic. “What did he say?”

Sam’s response is so quiet that Dean almost misses it. “It didn’t work.” He struggles to lift his head, as if it weighs a ton, and drags his eyes up to meet Dean’s gaze with a mournful one of his own. Sam’s eyes are bright red and slicked with moisture, which means he hasn’t actually started crying yet, but the clenched way he’s holding his jaw says that it’s been quite the effort to stave off. When he speaks again, his voice is throaty with unshed tears. “The ritual. It didn’t work. I was so sure that…” He blinks harshly and a tear escapes. “It was supposed to work.”

Dean can feel his foolish hopes from earlier disintegrate like flash paper. It was stupid to let himself believe, even for a second, even only part-way. Dean is going to Hell. He _knows_ he’s going to Hell. He’d known from the second he’d made the deal. Not that he regretted his decision, not even for a moment. He couldn’t regret anything if it meant that Sam was here and _alive_. Even if he’s suffering right now. Because Sam would eventually be okay. Sam would eventually accept the fact that there isn’t any way out of this, and Dean will keep trying his best to convince his own brain of the same thing. Good. Dean should feel shattered right now. That’s what he gets for hoping.

“Hey, man. I keep telling you. It’s kind of a ‘no refunds’ thing.” Dean brings a hand up to rub his brother’s shoulder. The sunken, caved-in feeling inside of him is doing its best to drag Dean under, so he focuses his entire attention on Sam as a distraction. He even manages to drudge up a smile. “C’mon, Sammy. You know that no giant Gandalf-eagle’s gonna swoop in and save me from this. You know that.” A few more tears have escaped Sam’s floodgates and he’s got that suicidally stubborn crease in his forehead, so Dean makes completely sure that he’s got the younger man’s full attention before quietly repeating himself one more time. “You _know_ that.” Sam looks wrecked, but wrenches his gaze away as Dean finally lowers himself to sit beside his brother. He squeezes the hand he’s still got on Sam’s shoulder. “But you’ll be okay.” 

At Dean’s words, Sam forcefully jerks his hands into fists against the comforter. He tenses his entire body, light tremors vibrating through the muscles of his arms and back as he tries to shut down the unwanted emotions. He makes it for about ten seconds before he sucks in a short breath, and that’s the only warning Dean gets before the crying starts in full. Violent, heaving, wet sobs that wrack Sam’s body and make it sound like he’s choking on the very air. He curls into himself and clutches Dean’s sleeve in a white-knuckled death grip, grinding his words out past the sodden lump lodged in his windpipe. “I won’t. Don’t you get it? I _won’t_ be okay, Dean.” He struggles to suck some air into his lungs and clenches his teeth against the sounds trying to escape his throat. “I will _never_ be okay with this.” His cheeks are already a red, wet mess, and when he clamps his eyes shut, more tears spill down the sides of his face to soak into his shirt collar. “I can’t—” He sniffs wetly and stiffens his entire body, shuddering through another sob. “I _can’t_.”

Dean winds his arms around Sam’s back then, and guides his brother’s face into his shoulder. And Sam finally gives up on holding anything back. He breaks down and bawls, completely drenching the fabric of Dean’s dress shirt. He clutches at Dean and pulls, wrenching his brother against him, as if he could keep all the demons of Hell at bay using only the strength of his arms. “Shh, Sammy.” Dean rubs the flat of his palm along Sam’s back in soothing circles, and slides the fingers of his other hand through his brother’s hair. “It’s okay, Sam.” He rests the side of his face against the top of Sam’s head and presses a kiss to what he can reach. “It’ll be okay. I’m here.” Dean does his best to ignore Sam’s convulsing shoulders and wet sobs, and tries as hard as he can to savor the feeling of his brother in his arms…while he’s still able to. “I’m here, Sammy.” 

Sam’s cried before. Dean’s seen Sam cry before. But he hasn’t seen anything like this for a very long time. The red-faced, violent, wailing had disappeared right around the time Sam had started elementary school. Ever since he was a kid, Sam took the most horrific, bloodcurdling, agonizing news with strong, silent tears. Even when he’d first found out the nightmarish truth about the world they lived in, he’d turned away from Dean and suffered in silence. Trying his hardest not to let Dean know that he’d been crying. Dean can’t remember exactly, but he thinks Sam couldn’t have been more than eight.  

He continues to whisper meaningless clichés into his brother’s hair until Sam finally calms down. He’s stopped crying now and is mostly just breathing into Dean’s soaked shirt. Dean holds him for a few more minutes, just to make sure the moment has passed, before he pulls back and loosens the circle of his arms. “You good?”  

Sam pulls away as well and nods, rubbing the back of his hand under each eye. “Yeah,” he croaks wetly. “I'm good.” He twines his fingers in his lap and won’t meet Dean’s stare. “I didn’t mean to do that. Sorry.”

They don’t have any tissues or anything, and his face is still a mess, so Dean grabs Sam’s suit jacket from where he’d flung it on the other side of the bed and gently tosses it at his brother. “Here you go, Good Will Hunting. You look like shit.”

That manages to get an unexpected laugh out of Sam and he wipes the back of his blazer over his face before dropping it into his lap. He looks up at Dean and quirks an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me it’s not my fault?”

That starts Dean laughing too, and he pulls his brother in to press a kiss to his temple. He slides his hand down to the back of Sam’s neck and rests their foreheads together. “For real though, you okay?”

Sam pulls back just far enough that he can look directly into Dean’s eyes. “I’m not gonna stop. I’m going to save you.”

“Sure you will, Sammy.” 

Sam’s expression hardens. “I’m serious, Dean.”

Dean gives his brother a placating smile. “I know you are.” He shifts to rest his leg against Sam’s. “You’re gonna keep—Ow! Son of a bitch!” Dean jumps off of the bed and rubs at the searing pain in his leg. “Jesus fuck, Sam. What the hell? Do you have my lighter in your pocket?”

“What? No.” Sam looks at him like he’s crazy. “What are you talking about?”

Dean hisses as he lifts the fabric of his slacks away from his burned skin. “Well, what then? You grab the cigarette lighter from the car?”

Sam’s expression hasn’t changed. “Dean. What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You just burned me with whatever’s in your goddamn pocket.”  

Sam frowns, then pats his hands over his dress pants. “Dude, I don’t have anything in my front pockets.” 

“Well, I don’t have anything in mine eith—” Dean shuts himself up as he realizes that his statement isn’t exactly true. He furrows his brow in confusion and reaches into his pocket to grab the cold stone and pull it out. 

Sam pushes himself off the bed and steps toward Dean. “Is that the zemi? Did it heat up?” He freezes for a second and horror washes over his face. “Was—was it me? Do you think it’s because of my…?” 

Dean really wants to wipe that terrified look off his little brother’s face, so he moves closer and slowly waves the zemi up and down Sam’s body. Its temperature doesn’t even fluctuate. “Nope. Looks like you’re fine, Miss Cleo.” 

Sam looks noticeably relieved, but he frowns again. “Then what?”

Dean makes a thoughtful sound, then walks over to the bed they were sitting on. “In the mattress maybe?” He passes the figurine over the bed, then shouts when it burns his fingers again. “Ow! Jesus. It’s your fucking jacket, man!” He tosses the stone to his other hand and blows on his fingers as Sam investigates his blazer.

Sam smoothes his hands down the front and reaches into the pocket, then shoots Dean an exasperated look and pulls out the potpourri bag that Duncan had given them. “Yahtzee.”

“Huh, and to think that we were almost gonna head out.” Dean carefully places the zemi on the bedside table before moving in to look at the bundle of fabric. “Think it was him?”

Sam fiddles with the small bag in his fingers. “Must be. Man, when Candace said you had to get close enough for that thing to work, she really meant _close_.”

Dean stiffens. “Dude.” He scoffs and gives Sam a look. “ _Dude_.”

Sam just raises his eyebrows. “What?” 

“ _Candace_. It’s gotta be her.” Dean waves his hand at the bag. “She’s a fucking witch, man. She said so herself.”

Sam laughs. Because he’s an asshole. “Seriously, man?” He bites his lip, apparently trying to curtail a smile. “Is this that jealousy thing again?” 

Dean jerks back. “What? No.”

“She’s a _Wiccan_ , Dean. And she’s Bobby’s friend. I seriously doubt she’s secretly casting love spells around town, then helping us stop them.” He gives Dean a smug look. “We’d never even have found out about this without her. And we’re definitely not gonna go around waving a gun in her face just because you don’t like that she has a crush on me.”

“She doesn’t have a crush on you, Sam. She was trying to work her mojo on you.” He wiggles his fingers appropriately.

Sam crosses his arms. “Dean, she’s helping us. That doesn’t even make the tiniest bit of sense.”

Dean sighs, but lets it go. “Fine. Whatever.” He hates that Sam’s argument is completely sound. It would have been really nice to have an actual reason for why he hated her. Instead of just being jealous of Sam’s attention. Which makes him a fucking _girl_. “So, next step is,” he peers at the hex bag in Sam’s hands, “figure out where the hell this thing came from.”

Sam hums and measures the weight of it in his palm. “This really doesn’t look like any hex bag I’ve ever seen. Although, I guess it’s not killing people, just whammying ‘em.” 

Dean pulls out his pocketknife. “Wanna find out what’s inside?” Sam smirks as Dean hands the knife over and then begins to cut at the seams of the bundle. Once he gets the whole thing open, he spreads the contents out onto the bed. It’s filled with herbs and seeds, a few crushed flower petals, and a crusty string that must have been soaked in some mysterious liquid. There’s also a permeating smell of scented oil rising from the bag’s ingredients.

Sam takes a step back and cocks his head. “Weird. There are no bones, no animal parts, and no objects that could have belonged to any of the vics.” He looks at Dean. “I have no idea what this thing is.”

Dean rubs his thumb across his lips and scrutinizes the hex bag a little more intensely. “For some reason, it seems kinda familiar to me. Like I could swear I’ve seen it before.” He frowns and inspects it some more. “Something about the fabric maybe?” All of a sudden, he jerks his head up. Because he fucking remembers. “Dammit!” He thrusts a finger into Sam’s face. “I _have_ seen it. The Riveras had one of these on their shelf. I thought it was a damn bag of potpourri.” He clenches and shakes his hand out a few times. “And you had the zemi ‘cause you were over at the senator’s. Fuck!” 

Sam draws his brows down and squints his eyes. “But, there wasn’t anything like this at the senator’s apartment. I would’ve remembered.” He brings his eyes back up. “And we were at the Antonuccis’ place together, there wasn’t anything there either.” 

Dean worries at his lip a bit with his teeth, then sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t see anything there.” He glances at the pieces of Sam’s phone. “Duncan said he got it as a housewarming gift, right? It’d be great if we could call him and ask, but…” He gestures at the broken plastic.

Sam looks unbelievably pissed at himself for about three seconds, then he slaps his hands against his pockets and looks up excitedly. “I wrote it down!” He fumbles for a minute, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small slip of paper. He holds his hand out for Dean’s phone and ignores Dean’s victimized sighs until he gives in and hands his cell over.  

Sam walks a few steps away and has a quick conversation into the receiver. Dean can’t hear much other than the mellow rumble of his brother’s voice, but after a few minutes Sam hangs up and stalks over to Dean.  

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “Good news?”

“Guess who Senator Edgeman was visiting as a gesture of good will toward the LGBT community?”

Dean groans. “Seriously? He got it from Edgeman? That puts a bag at three of our four vics’ houses.” 

Sam scrunches his lips up and nods. “But what about Tony and Helena?”

“You think maybe they had one? And they passed it off just like the senator?” Dean screws up his face in concentration for a bit, then snaps his fingers. “Carlos. He had a gunshot wound,” he taps at his chest, “right in the shoulder. Obvious hospital job.” 

Sam’s expression slackens as it dawns on him. “Helena’s a nurse at the hospital.”

“Bingo, bango.” Dean makes a face at his own words and decides never to say that again. Sam gives him an amused look, so Dean rushes to finish his argument, before his brother can permanently stick anything into the ‘sibling ammo’ part of his brain. “She must have had it first and passed it off to him.” 

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Great. So we know that it’s obviously these bags that are causing the magic. But who’s behind it?” He pulls off his tie and unbuttons the top of his shirt. “I’m gonna head over to Candace’s, see what she thinks.” 

Dean snorts. “You’re gonna walk right up to the most likely suspect and tell her that you know her dirty little secret?”

“Dean, she’s not the most likely suspect. She’s our best chance of figuring this thing out.”

Dean stands his ground. “She’s an evil witch, Sammy.”

Sam gives him a look, then shakes his head and makes for the door. “You can do whatever you want.  _I’m_ going to talk to Candace.”

Dean pushes his tongue into his cheek and glares at his brother, then exhales sharply through his nose once it becomes clear that Sam isn’t budging. “Fine.” He sucks at his teeth and glares once more at Sam for good measure. “Can we at least get changed first?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Dean accidentally releases a mushroom cloud of dust from the storeroom at the back of ‘Lady C’s’ shop. He moves his shoulder away from the ancient fabric or curtains or whatever it was that he just ran into and tries his hardest not to sneeze. Just his luck, there’s probably a damn cat in here too. It would definitely fall in line with how his day has gone so far. Dean inches as quietly as he can up the musty shelves until he can get a decent view out the back doorway. He can see the back of Candace’s head and he’s got a fair perspective on the area in front of her counter. Should be good enough. He pulls his Colt out and waits.

…And, right on cue. There’s an annoying tinkle of bells, and Sam’s enormous head comes into view. He had completely opposed Dean’s idea of doing exactly what they were doing right now, insisting that Candace was harmless, but Dean wasn’t planning on sending his brother off to certain death just because Sam had decided to have a bowl of stupid for breakfast today.  

Candace perks right up when she sees his brother. “Sam, hi!” She curls her fingers under the counter and leans forward, probably giving Sam a pretty great view of the goods. For a brief moment, Dean resents having to be the back-up. “What are you doing back? Is your brother okay?” 

Sam gives her one of his warm smiles. Because he’s an idiot and he’s totally buying her innocent shtick. “No, Dean’s fine. I actually just needed your help.” He clears his throat and reaches into his pocket. “Here’s a list of names of the victims that we’ve been looking at. Could you do me a favor and tell me if you know of anyone who’d want to come after them in some way?” He slides the list over the counter and clears his throat again. “Or even if you just know anything they might have in common. 

Candace reaches a hand out to smooth over the paper. “Well, I know _of_ Senator Edgeman. He came in here once when he was doing a small business outreach for his campaign.” Sam coughs, and nods for her to go on. She makes a happy little chirp. “Oh! I know Helena Cohen. She’s come in here before for a palm reading.”  

Sam coughs a little louder into his closed fist, then clears his throat again. Dean worriedly glances behind him into the empty storeroom. If he’d accidentally kicked up enough dust to bother Sam, there’s a good chance his cover might get blown. Luckily, Candace seems blissfully unaware that they aren’t alone. Sam brings his focus back to the redhead in front of him. “Do you know anyone else on that list?” 

Candace sighs. “I’m afraid not.” Sam falls into another coughing jag, but motions for her to continue. “I mean, I’ve heard of Rose Rivera. She’s the one who was attacked by her husband, right?” Sam rubs at his throat and nods. Candace slides the paper back over the counter. “Sorry, but that’s all I know. Did you find anything else?” 

Sam pulls the weird hex bag out of his coat. “We found this.” His voice sounds alarmingly hoarse and gravelly. “We think it’s some kind of hex bag, but we can’t figure it out. I thought that maybe—” He coughs again, harsher this time. “Maybe you could—” Sam holds up a hand. “I’m sorry, just—” His voice cracks and he breaks into another coughing spree.

Candace makes a shocked sound and turns toward him. “You touched it?” 

Sam does his best to nod, but when lifts his head in between all of the hacking, there’s blood on his lips. 

That’s _it_. Sam is officially in danger and Dean’s seeing red. He knew this would happen. His stupid brother got himself fucking _hexed_ and Dean’s only got a few minutes before Sam ends up coughing up a lung or something. And the only fucking _issue_ is that Candace’s body is tilted at a really inconvenient motherfucking angle to the storeroom door. And Dean has no idea what other kind of lethal booby traps she’s got rigged up. She can’t see him from where he’s pressed up against a shelf, but the instant he passes through the doorway, he’s just as dead as his brother. Because this is _exactly_ how his _fucking_ day had to go today. 

The stupid fucking witch laughs. “You actually _touched_ it?” She leans forward, but not enough to block Dean from view, and lets out a predatory purr. “Ooh, and you’re _brothers_. How deliciously naughty. Did anything happen?”

Sam tries to go for his gun, but he groans and stumbles to his knees. His hacking is getting worse by the second. There’s a fair amount of blood covering his lips now, and he’s struggling to pull in air with each cough.

“And to think, I was so worried that any friends of Bobby Singer’s were going to be _such_ dangerous hunters. I even made sure to send you out to find my handiwork. It gave me just enough time to make one of these.” She pulls out the hand she was keeping under the counter and produces a hex bag. A standard hex bag, with the brown cloth and the stupid familiar shape. And Dean’s willing to bet it’s also chock full of the familiar black magic innards. “Not as inspired as my new design, of course. But it is a classic. All you need is a few ingredients,” she chuckles darkly, “and something belonging to your intended victim.”

Sam’s on his hands and knees now, shoulders heaving as he tries to breathe. And Dean can’t do a damn _thing_ , because the fucking bitch is still in the fucking way. If Sam gets any worse, he’s just gonna have to risk it.

“It only takes a scrap of cloth,” Candace’s eyes glimmer darkly, “…or a thread.”  _Son of a bitch_. Sam had let her touch his shoulder because he thought she was fucking flirting with him. Dammit, he knows better than that! If either of them survives this, Dean’s gonna kill him. Candace smiles at his brother choking on the floor. “And to think, the big, bad hunter came in here completely defenseless. Such a shame.” She tilts her head back towards Sam and that’s all Dean needs. 

He strides up directly behind Candace and shoves his Colt slowly, but firmly, into the back of her head. He can tell the exact moment she feels it too, because she instantly goes rigid. Dean cocks the hammer back, deliberately making sure that she can hear the click echo against her skull. “C’mon, darlin’. You didn’t actually think a hunter’d waltz in here alone, did you?” She trembles in anger. “You see, Bobby Singer? More of an uncle than a friend, really. He taught us quite a bit...and we are _such_ dangerous hunters.” He uses his other hand to bring up his lighter. “Now how’s about you burn that hex bag of yours, and I don’t blow your pretty little head off?” It’s a lot harsher than Dean usually plays it, but he can hear his brother’s gasps against the floor, and he’s never been less in the mood for games than he is right now. He can tell she’s furious from the harsh set to her breathing, but apparently Candace wants to live longer than today and she snatches the lighter out of his hand. She fumbles with the ignition for a moment, but gets the flame lit and holds it under the bag.

The instant the fire catches, Dean can hear Sam pull in a deep breath. He makes sure to keep his pistol against Candace’s skull, but leans until he can see Sam. “You okay, little brother?” Sam tilts his head up to toss him a weak glare, but manages to give Dean a silent thumbs-up. Which makes sense, because he’s still using most of his energy to gulp in more oxygen. Dean waits for Sam to get himself under control enough to stand, then moves Candace over to an unused chair. “Sit.” She glares like poison, but does what he says. Dean holds the gun on her long enough for Sam to yank some of the decorative fabric out of the ceiling and tie it around her tight enough to hold a man three times her size. Once everything appears to be under control, Dean relaxes and heads over to his brother. “Freaking witches, man. They give me the heebies _and_ the jeebies.”  

Sam sighs and looks at his brother before croaking out, “Sure took you long enough.” He’s still smiling and his tone is grateful, so Dean decides to interpret it as teasing.

“Well, you were so _certain_ she was innocent. I didn’t want to make any hasty moves.” Sam laughs until he winces, then grabs at his throat again.

Dean’s smile drops and he turns Sam’s head to check for any more injuries. “You okay, Sammy?” His brother nods, and it seems like there aren’t any internal abrasions anyway, so Dean figures Sam will be fine. “Fucking Wiccans. Just witches with better PR.” 

“What about Nora Havelock, from Idaho?” 

Dean makes a face. “Whatever. Exception that proves the rule.” He glances down at his brother’s lips. “Uh…you got some…” Dean gestures at the blood coating his mouth. Sam brings up a hand and presses the tips of his fingers against his skin to see what Dean’s talking about. They come back red and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth to lick the rest of the blood off of it. And Dean steadfastly ignores the ping of lust it sends straight to his groin. Then he freezes as he suddenly realizes something. “Sam. You said that there wasn’t anything in the love bags to tie them to the specific victims, right?” Sam gives him a curious look, then nods. “And they passed the bag along from person to person, and it affected everyone?” Sam still looks confused, but nods again. “And Charmed over here was surprised when you touched it, yeah?” 

Sam’s face doesn’t change for a few seconds, then his eyes slam wide and his eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t think…” 

They both turn to look at Candace, and she’s smiling like the cat that ate the canary, then headed over to the neighbors’ to have a couple of parakeets for dessert. “Why, whatever is the matter, boys?” 

Dean levels his gun right at her heart. “What the fuck does it do?” 

She laughs. “The love spell? Exactly what you think it does.” She twists her red lips into a moue of mock disappointment. “Oh, just imagine how heartbroken your poor _Uncle_ Bobby will be when he finds out what his boys have done to each other.” 

Dean’s arm doesn’t even twitch. “Turn it off.”

Candace laughs again, harsher this time. Apparently she’s taking out any sort of petty revenge she can. “Sorry, Dean. I don’t know how.” She winks at Sam.  _Again_. Dean is gonna kill this bitch in every painful way he can think of. “Pulled it out of a book, you see. I have no idea what makes it tick, only that it does, in fact, _tick_.” 

Sam gets that classic ‘Stanford’ expression on his face again. Because apparently, now is the perfect time to figure out her possible reasoning. Yes, time to parse through all the completely unnecessary reasons _why_ she’s doing what she’s doing instead of just trying to fix the damn problem. When they get out of this, Dean is going to drink until he can’t see. Sam steps forward. “Why _are_ you using this spell if you don’t even know what it does? What’s it for?”

Candace makes a sympathetic noise. “Oh, _Sammy_.” That’s it, Dean’s killing everyone. “I thought you were the smart one.” Sam still looks confused, so she elaborates. “What do you think the most powerful force in the world is?” 

Sam glances at Dean, then furrows his brow and looks back to the woman in the chair. “Wait.  _Love?”_  He makes a thoughtful face. “Seriously?” 

She shrugs. “I mean sure, it’s a little Huey Lewis for my tastes, but whatever works, y’know?” She rolls her shoulders as best she can while strapped down, then sighs. “I actually _was_ a Wiccan, that’s how I met Bobby Singer. Helped him out with an okami back in the day.” She smiles genuinely at the memory. Which is weird. “But what I said before is true. Wiccan magic is harmless. And _useless_. When I heard the rumors of witches who were able to cast spells without any extra components—well, I couldn’t resist.” Her smile is darker now, carnivorous. “I’d come across so many books of magic in my time…I finally decided to use one. But I wasn’t going to wait for centuries just to become powerful, so I found a little spell that could speed up the process.” She moans and rolls her head back. “And it did everything I’d hoped. All it took was a few love spells here and there, and it brought me power, knowledge,” she smirks, “ _youth_.” 

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “So you’re what? Like a hundred?”

She scoffs and looks insulted. “Please. I’m forty-two.”

“Huh. Well, I gotta say, you look pretty good for an older broad.” Sam kicks him in the ankle to get him to stop antagonizing their prisoner, but Dean just shoots him a condescending smile. He turns back to Candace. “You know what, bitch? I don’t even think your spell’s working.” He mockingly pats himself down. “’Cause I feel fine. No unexpected hocus-pocus here.” 

Candace just smirks at his attempts to goad her. “Oh, it takes a little while, don’t you worry.” She leans as far forward as she can. “And that isn’t even the best part, Dean. One of the things I did eventually figure out about the spell? It’s _lethal_ if you don’t, you know,” she perfectly articulates each syllable, “See. It. Through.” Candace smiles and leans back. “There was this one couple, very sweet, it was a real shame what almost happened to them. They just had such a hard time going through with it. She was married to someone else, you see. His best friend, if I recall correctly.” Her eyes gleam. “It’s such an agonizing way to go, too. I’m actually impressed that they were able to stick it out for as long as they did. Of course, they succumbed eventually. I’ve never seen the spell actually fail.” She throws her head back and cackles. “So really, when it comes down to it. I may not have won, but _you’ve_ definitely lost. There’s two ways I can see this going.  _One—_ you somehow manage to hold out, and you and your precious brother die a slow, excruciating death. Or _two—_ you succumb to the spell like everyone does eventually, and I tell your beloved Bobby exactly what you two did under the influence.”

Dean silently seethes for a bit. Then he flashes the bitch a bitter smile and hauls Sam off around the corner. “Private conference.” He checks to make sure she can’t hear them, and then turns to his brother. “Alright, so we ice her, deal with the body, then head back to the motel. Easy-peasy.” He throws Sam his best leer. “Actually, that’s one of the more enjoyable ways I can think of to deal with a spell.” 

Sam looks horrified. “Dean, we’re not gonna _kill_ her!” He nervously glances up to make sure Candace hasn’t overheard anything, then scoots them a few more inches away. “Look, she hasn’t killed anyone yet. I mean, she’s fucked a few people over—” 

Dean can’t help but wiggle his eyebrows. “Literally.” 

“ _But_ ,” Sam continues, determinedly ignoring Dean’s interruption, “she hasn’t actually murdered anybody.” 

Dean scoffs. “She just _tried_ to murder you in cold blood, Sam. And her fucking spell is doing its best to kill anyone who doesn’t get with the program. That sure seems like a ganking offense to me.”   

Sam gets that determined ‘I will not be a monster’ look in his eye. It’s been a while since Dean’s seen that one. He hadn’t been missing it. “I’m not killing her, Dean. She’s human.” 

“Barely.” Sam doesn’t look amused, so he tries a different tactic. “C’mon, you’re usually Mr. Sensitive about all this shit. Look me in the eye and tell me that all this isn’t technically rape.” 

Sam finally looks uncomfortable at that one. He shuffles his feet a bit and bobs his head in reluctant agreement. “Well, yes. I mean, _technically_ —but c’mon, man.” He actually blushes before adding, “It’s not like any of them are that against it. The Antonucci couple is getting _married_ next week.”

Dean makes a face in disbelief. “So what, that makes it okay?” 

Sam quickly raises a defensive hand. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just—” He takes a second to collect his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking. What if it isn’t random? I mean, if the spell just chooses two people, completely arbitrarily, don’t you think we’d be seeing more fallout? More anger or regret?” He licks his lips excitedly, picking up steam. “Think about it, man. Every single couple we’ve seen that was affected by this is still together. Hell, they’re practically ecstatic.” 

Dean lets out a breath. “So what’re you saying? That the spell chooses people who are, what, already in love?” He shoots Sam a wry look. “That’s convenient.”

“Well maybe not in love, _per se_.” Sam furrows his brow. “But it is possible that all the couples had feelings for each other beforehand and the spell just picked up on that. Went in for the easiest kill, so to speak.” He shrugs. “It makes sense.” 

Dean is still thoroughly skeptical. “So you think she’s actually _helping_ people get together? Like some kinda psycho Millionaire Matchmaker?” 

Sam makes a noncommittal, wiggly motion with his hand. “Well…sorta. I don’t think she’s actually doing it on purpose. You heard her, man. She just picked the spell out of a book. She said herself that she doesn’t even know exactly how it works.” He shoots Dean a meaningful look. “But it would explain why the spell latched onto us.”

Dean immediately attempts to cut off that train of thought by giving Sam his best death glare. Because he should really know better by now. The last time he had even _thought_ that Sam might try to say _“I love you,”_ Dean had made sure to throw an Egg McMuffin at his face before he could get more than one word out. And the time before that, Dean just made a loud, unattractive noise before Sam could even begin. It was somewhere between a “blech” and a snake hiss. The days that Dean has left before his deal comes due are steadily dwindling down, and apparently Sam thinks that overly romantic schmoop is the best way to handle it. Dean has been doing everything in his power to squash that notion.

Sam raises his hands in submission. “I’m just saying. It makes sense.”

Dean hazards another glance at their captive and scrubs a hand down his face. “Okay. So Teen Witch decides that she wants to bulk up, picks a random spell out of a hat, and just happens to help a bunch of people fall in love?” He’s still mostly unconvinced, but moves to tuck his gun in the back of his jeans, for Sam’s sake. “Still sounds pretty fishy to me, man. And who’s to say the spell isn’t just roofie-ing the vics? Making ‘em feel all lovey-dovey after the fact?” 

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “That is possible I guess. But think about it, man.” He counts off the victims on his fingers. “Helena’s roommate did say that her and Tony were into each other for months before anything happened, and the only reason they never went for it was ‘cause of his parents.” Sam moves on to finger number two. “And, like you said, politicians fall for their secretaries all the time. Edgeman probably wouldn’t have done anything to break up his marriage while he was still running for office like that, but he did seem to be pretty okay with everything when I spoke to him.” Finger number three. “The Riveras were almost _shot_ after sleeping together. If they were aware that her husband was violent, then it makes sense why they never consummated the relationship before.” 

“ _Consummated_ , Sam? Really?”

“ _And_ ,” Sam finishes with his pinky, “Christopher and Duncan were probably just closeted. Christopher was married with kids, Duncan was a high profile lawyer. Okay, makes sense why they never made a move. But then they also went golfing, for hours, every single day? I don’t know, Dean. That seems like a bit more than just a friendship to me.” 

Dean ponders for a second. “So what about the couple she was just talking about? The ones that almost _died?_  You think they’re sitting around somewhere, together, totally jazzed?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s possible, man. And it would fit the pattern.”

“Alright, alright.” Dean hates to admit it, but Sam’s argument actually makes sense. “So it goes after people who wanna bone each other, but there’s gotta be some taboo attached?” 

Sam shrugs. “I guess. Religion. Marriage. Homophobia. In all of the cases, there were good reasons for the affected couples not to get together.” He also gestures between Dean and himself, but doesn’t actually say anything out loud. “Maybe the forbidden aspect makes the magic stronger?” Sam suddenly stops and draws his eyebrows together. “Actually, now that I think about it, who’s to say that she hasn’t been getting energy off a lot more couples than just the ones we know about? If it latches onto any romantic emotion, and a couple was already together before the spell hit, no one would even notice anything had happened. She does seem to be more powerful than just a couple week’s worth of magic.”

Dammit, that also made sense. “Okay,” Dean grudgingly agrees, “so, lucky for Sabrina the Teenage Bitch over there, she’s not actually hurting people. Yet. We still can’t just let her off scot-free, Sam. What if next time someone does end up getting plugged? Or spelled to death?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or hexed?”

Sam has the decency to look sheepish. “I’m not saying we let her continue what she’s doing, Dean. But maybe we can convince her to stop somehow? She did help Bobby. Maybe we can burn the spellbook and, I don’t know, get her to see the light?” Sam looks like he doesn’t exactly believe in his own plan either, but he puts on a hopeful expression for Dean’s benefit. His face is open, sweet. His too-pink lips are closed, but they’re stretched into an earnest smile and his brows are raised just enough to set those little crinkles that Dean secretly loves into his forehead. And his eyes, oh his eyes. There’s just enough sun coming in from the shop’s dusty windows to illuminate the multicolored hues in his irises. Hazel ringed by blue. Sammy’s eyes are the most beautiful things that Dean’s ever—wait…what the _fuck?_  Dean has to mentally shake himself out of it. Dammit, seems like the fucking thing is starting already. He gives his head a physical shake as well, just to make sure he doesn’t start spouting poetry or some shit. 

Dean lightly coughs. “I, uh—I think the spell may be starting. A little bit,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“Oh.” Sam looks slightly taken aback. He glances at Candace, then back at his brother. “Um...” Sam makes an abortive reaching motion toward Dean, and then scoots back a little. Then he steps forward again. “Do you need me to—? Uh, I mean… Should I…?” He bites his lip. Propelled by the fervor of the spell, it’s almost unbearably sexy. “What do you want me to do here, man?” 

Dean puts one hand over his eyes and flaps the other one at Sam’s face. Or, at least, what he thinks is the direction of Sam’s face. He can’t exactly see at the moment. “Just, not _that_. Don’t fucking do _that_ right now, okay?” 

Sam sounds confused. “Uh…I’m not really sure what _that_ is. What is it that I should _not_ be doing right now?” 

“The biting thing. With the lips. Just don’t, okay?” Dean risks a glance over his fingers. “Oh god. Don’t move your eyebrows either. Or smile.” Dean waits a few seconds for safety, then risks another glance to see Sam’s nod. He’s doing his absolute best to show no expression on his face whatsoever. And it’s infuriatingly adorable. And it’s not helping in the slightest because his gorgeous eyes are still staring directly into Dean’s soul. “You know what? How about you just don’t look at me? You should probably just not look anywhere in my direction right now, alright?” Sam nods again, his eyes obediently cast towards the floor. Okay, this is good. This is fine. Dean can handle this. He heads back over to the woman in the chair, Sam following a half-step behind.

Candace quirks a perfectly shaped eyebrow as they approach. “Finally done with our little _tête-a-tête,_  I see? Anything interesting worth _mentioning?”_  Sensuality drips like honey off of the last word.

Dean clears his throat and focuses all of his attention on the woman in front of him. And not on the man beside him. Who’s tall. And strong. And warm. And ridiculously attractive. And looming. Dean clears his throat. “My brother has very graciously decided not to gank you in cold blood. Which wasn’t my first impulse, but hey,” he shrugs, “no accounting for taste.” He fixes Candace with his most serious stare-down. “In return, you are going to promise to burn that goddamn book and leave magic alone forever. Or we’re gonna come back, and I’m gonna slit your throat no matter what my brother says.” He tosses an, “Isn’t that right, Sam?” over his shoulder and gets no response. Which is weird because Sam is…oh. Sam is staring at Dean’s ass. Like his life depends on it. Guess that means the spell has finally kicked in on both ends. Fan-fucking-tastic. Dean snaps his fingers in his brother’s face. “Sam!” 

Sam jumps like he’s been shocked. His gaze settles on Dean, and it’s as if that same electric current suddenly jolts through both of them. If Dean thought it was bad before, when he was the only one mojoed, it’s infinitely worse now that Sam’s got it too. Dean feels like he’s stuck in amber, he’s completely mesmerized by the straight line of his brother’s brow, the soulful tilt of his almond eyes, the swoop of his nose, the silky slide of his hair. Not to mention his lips, open and wanting, or the sharp angle of his jaw, or the taste of his skin.  _God_. Dean knows exactly what Sam’s skin tastes like. He knows the feel of his brother coming apart under his expert hands, coming undone. The noises he makes, the exact way he slams his eyes shut and creases his forehead and throws his head back, exposing the smooth column of his neck as he whimpers and gasps out a single, _“Dean,”_ before falling back into his older brother’s arms, boneless and exhausted and loved. 

And the worst part, the absolute worst part of it all, is that Sam is desperately soaking up every tiny bit of Dean with the exact same starving gaze that Dean knows is reflected on his own face. The urge to go to Sam, to marvel over every inch of his body with hands and lips and teeth, to pull his brother to him and never let him go is so strong that Dean can actually feel his knees buckle. Dean wants Sam exactly like he’s always wanted Sam. He wants Sam like he’s never wanted Sam before. He wants Sam the way he only does in the most secret corners of his own mind; wholly and selfishly, vulnerably and completely unprotected, without any hesitation or doubt or guilt.  _Worshipfully_ , where words like ‘forever’ and ‘love’ and ‘soul mate’ flash across his thoughts and Dean doesn’t feel the usual burning compulsion to grab them and stomp them into oblivion.  

He isn’t afraid of Hell. Dean isn’t afraid of anything. They can torture him, they can strip him piece by piece, they can fist their claws into his soul and rend him limb from limb. They can keep him away for a hundred years. Five hundred. A thousand. They can put him in the cold and the dark and try to force Dean to forget, to rip apart his humanity and leave nothing but destruction and evil in its place. But they can’t tear him away from Sam. Nothing in the entire fucking universe could ever do anything that would make him love Sam even one shred less than he does right at this moment. He will always find his way back. They will always find their way to each other. Because Sam is the other half of his fucking soul. And no one in the history of creation has ever loved _anyone_ more than he loves his little brother. 

“My, my, my. Would you look at that?”  

Candace’s voice is jarring enough to shatter the moment, and Dean is finally able to wrench himself away from Sam’s gaze. He lurches to his knees and stares determinedly at the floor until his wild gasping slows to a normal rate. He can feel an unexpected dampness on his cheeks, and when he swipes his fingertips under his eye, they come back wet. Dean brings his head up to look at the woman in the chair, and when he speaks, his voice is raw. “…What the fuck did you do to me?” He stumbles, but straightens to his full height. “This is the spell?” As hard as he tries, Dean can’t seem to get his voice above a growled whisper. “What did you do to us?” 

“Dean…”

Dean flits his eyes to his brother, then catches himself just in time. He can’t risk meeting Sam’s eyes again. He glances through his peripheral vision to see his brother in a half-crouch, brokenly staring at the floor. He looks shell-shocked. He looks like all of his insecurities and fears and hopes and emotions have been ripped out of the safety of his body to ache in the open air. He looks like Dean feels. “Are you okay, Sammy?” 

His brother shivers violently at the nickname. Shit, he should probably watch that. “Dean…” Sam closes his eyes. “What…?”

“I don’t know, Sam.” Dean drags his eyes up to glare at Candace. “What the fuck was that?” 

She looks surprised, but unshaken. “Well, I’ve certainly never seen _that_ before. It usually doesn’t come on so strongly.” Candace shrugs. “I told you the spell’s never failed. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” She smiles wickedly. “The only way to stop it is to see it through. And I have to be honest, I really wouldn’t mind at all if you got started right now.” She sneers. “Bobby might though.”

Dean is pissed. He’s pissed, and he’s fucked up, and he can’t talk anything through with the one person that he usually does, because if they even look at each other, they’re gonna start fucking on the goddamn floor. Or crying, because apparently their lives are shit. But Dean wants to.  _God_ , he wants to. He wants to wrap his arms around Sam as tight as he can and breathe him in and get inside of him and _stay_. But that really isn’t an option right now. Because the only thing worse than being sent to Hell is being sent to Hell with his surrogate father-figure hating him because of his fucking secret, fucked-up relationship with his fucking brother. He grabs a book from the closest shelf, some _Encyclopedia of Tarot_ bullshit, and hurls it against the opposite wall as hard as he can. There’s a semi-satisfying thunk, but it doesn’t do much to improve Dean’s mood. Or his situation. He hopes he broke the spine at least. 

“Dean. Maybe we should call Bobby.” Sam’s pulled himself together enough to get to his feet. His gaze is deliberately cast to the floor to make sure he doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. It’s a good move, and Dean feels an unwanted swell of arousal at Sam’s cleverness. “Dean?” 

Oh, right. Sam can’t see his face. “Yeah, Sam. I’ll go call Bobby. You just watch over _her_.” He takes a few steps to the door before pausing. “And don’t… Don’t let her go or anything, okay?” 

“I’m not going to let her _go_ , Dean.” Oh good. The crummy love spell hadn’t affected Sam’s bitchiness. Apparently being pissy wasn’t something it was worried about. “Go talk to Bobby.” 

Dean winds his way through the shelves, breathing a little easier now that he doesn’t have to carefully watch where he’s looking, and ducks through the door under the noise of those stupid motherfucking bells. Actually, on second thought— Dean reaches up to grab the bundle and yanks it out of the wall. Huh, that did make him feel a little better. He heads outside and chucks them in the direction of the Baskin-Robbins—kids like bells, right?—before dialing Bobby’s number. 

“Hello? Dean?” 

“Hey, Bobby.” Dean saturates his tone in syrup. “You know your contact, Glinda the Good Witch? Well, it turns out that she’s more of the ‘needs a house dropped on her’ kind.”

“Wait, are you tryin’ to tell me that Candace has gone dark side?” 

Dean grimaces sarcastically, even though Bobby can’t see it. “Turns out _she’s_ the one who’s been putting a whammy on everyone in town.” 

Dean can hear a solid thump, which means Bobby probably sat down. “Jesus, boy. I never woulda believed it. You know, she helped me with an okami once?”

“Yeah, she mentioned.”

“Well, what happened? You Ginsu her yet?”

Dean sighs. “Nope. Because _get this_ , Sam has decided that she hasn’t actually killed anyone, so we’re not gonna harm a hair on her precious, little head.”

“I thought you said she was spelling folks?” 

“She is. But she’s just making them fall in love. She hasn’t actually murdered anyone yet. Y’know, except for Sam, who she tried to hex.”

There’s the telltale clink of a glass and sloshing liquid. “Well, I hate to say it, but your brother’s got a point.” 

Dean is aghast. “Excuse me? Did you not hear me when I said she tried to _murder_ him?”

“You don’t get the Death Penalty for Attempted, Dean. Look, I’m not saying I agree with the idjit. I’m not even saying he’s right. I’m just saying he’s got a point. As long as Sam’s okay, I don’t see why he shouldn’t have a say.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well we don’t really have the trunk space for Life Without Parole. I don’t believe this. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Would you calm down?” Dean can hear wood creaking. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you called?” 

Dean clenches his jaw. “If we sent you a copy of the spell she’s using, could you come up with a counter spell? Or some other way to undo it?” 

“Thought you said Candace was still alive. Why don’t you get her to do it?”

Dean grits his teeth and speaks excruciatingly slowly. “She doesn’t know how.”

There’s a pause on the other line. “Are you foolin’ me?”

“She got it out of a _book_ and she doesn’t know the first fucking thing about it.”

“Balls.” He can hear Bobby sigh. “Alright, send it over and I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“You can thank me the next time I _don’t_ send you and your brother directly into the lions’ den.” 

Dean chuckles under his breath. “Alright, deal.” 

“Hey, Dean.” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Sam talk to you? About the whole, uh…”

“The ritual? Yeah.” 

Bobby sighs again. “I’m sorry, boy. We’re gonna keep trying.”

“It’s all good, Bobby. This isn’t on you.” It really isn’t. 

“…Alright. Take care, Dean. And take care of your fool brother.” 

They hang up and Dean takes a moment to center himself before going back inside. He leans against the windowpane and brings up a mental image of Sam. A huge wave of lust arrives with the picture and sweeps through him. Great. Looks like the spell works even when Sam’s not in his field of vision. How long do they have before this thing starts to get painful? Then deadly? Dean pushes himself up and takes a deep breath to calm down. One thing at a time, find the book, get the spell to Bobby, and hope he's able to come up with something. He supposes that if worst comes to absolute worst, they could always gank the bitch. 

Dean pushes open the door and strolls between the shelves, then realizes that without those annoying bells to announce him, he’d better do it himself. “Uh, Sam? I’m, uh, walking in now. So…yeah.” He comes up to the front area and Sam’s already dutifully looking at the floor. His broad shoulders are set in a grim line and Dean bets the corded muscles of his arms are straining the same way they always are when Sammy gets upset. Not that he could tell by looking. Sam always wears clothes that he’s swimming in. But Dean knows what’s under each layer. He knows the exact round of Sam’s shoulder, the exact curve of his chest when— _Jesus Christ!_  Dean drags his eyes away to look at the room’s other occupant. Candace looks smug and cruel, and now that Dean isn’t distracted by his brother’s— _stop it_ —he can see that Sam looks upset, and there’s an awkward lull in the air, like when someone stops a conversation mid-way. “Am I interrupting something?”

Candace grins like a shark. “Of course not, Sammy and I were just having a little chat.”

Dean glances between the two of them for a minute, but he doubts that anyone in this room is actually going to tell him what went down. “Uh-huh. Well, here’s how it’s gonna go down, sweetheart. You’ll tell us where your little spellbook is, and I won’t shoot you in the face. Deal?” 

Candace lowers her lashes and scrutinizes Dean’s face for a moment. “I don’t think you’ll kill me.” Her tone is the perfect model of affected nonchalance. “I mean, you haven’t already. So why would you suddenly change your mind now?” 

“Because I’m the one who’s been stopping him.” Sam brings his head up to glare at Candace, and Dean manages to avert his eyes just in time. “I’m keeping you alive under the condition that you remain pleasant and cooperative. The instant that changes, I’m not going to keep my brother from killing you in any way he wants to.” There’s a hint of a smile in Sam’s voice, and Dean can even make out a bit of the old hero-worship that Sam used to have before he turned into a sulky teenager. “He’s very creative.”

Candace still appears mostly unfazed, but there’s a new hint of wariness in her tone. “You guys are kind of like psychopaths, huh?”

Dean smirks and extends his hands out to her, “Pot.” He brings them back to gesture at himself, “Kettle.” 

Sam hasn’t shifted one imposing inch. “Where’s the book?”

She looks at them like she still doesn’t believe they’ll actually kill her, but she’s picking her battles. “It’s under the counter.” Sam goes to retrieve it and she adds, “Won’t do you any good.”  

Sam rummages around for a while, and rises with a thick leather-bound tome. “This it?” She glances over her shoulder, then nods. “Do you have a scanner?” She lets out a put-upon sigh and uses her head to gesture to the storeroom. Sam taps his long _(talented)_ fingers over the binding for a while before deciding on something and heading out of sight. 

Dean waits until he can hear the sound of his brother’s retreating footsteps stop, then the slight creak of a door. Which means Sam probably found a back office or something. His fingers twitch slightly and he curls them into a loose fist. He could do it. He could kill Candace right now, quick shot and an easy death, before Sam makes his way back. Dean could solve all of their problems, easy decision. And it’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. But…there had been something, some reason to put that look in Sam’s eye when he refused. There _has_  to be a good explanation for why Sam is putting them through all of this hassle. Dean sighs and moves his hand away from the butt of his gun.

“Hm. I thought you might do it.” He flits his eyes over to Candace. She’s still the perfect model of calm indifference. Dean is willing to put money on the fact that she doesn’t actually want to die, but it’s an impressive poker face nonetheless. “You know, now that we’re alone.” Her eyes flash darkly, but her face refuses to betray any other emotion.

Dean smiles and spreads his hands. “Hey, I can think of plenty of better things to do when I’m alone with an attractive woman. Even if she is an older gal.” He clicks his tongue, but gets nothing other than a humorless, razor-sharp smile in return. Dean meanders over to the bins of ‘mystic’ items and runs his fingers through a selection of cat’s eye stones. “My brother’s decided to put on his best Gandhi act today, don’t ask me why. But hey, I’m not gonna make a fuss if he insists we try to reform you.” He plinks one of the rocks into the box full of jade and lazily spins around to face the redhead. “But here’s the thing, sugar. You don’t manage to convince me that you’re truly sorry for your actions, we’re gonna have ourselves a problem.” He picks up a plastic copy of a Celtic pendant. “Tree of life, right?” Candace doesn’t blink, so Dean shrugs and flicks it away. “See, when push comes to shove, if I can’t be _absolutely_ certain that you’re never gonna touch a spellbook again, I will put you down. No matter what Sam thinks.” He strolls back over to stand in front of her chair and sticks his hands in his jacket pockets. “So, how’s about you cooperate like a good little witch and everyone goes home happy? And alive, hm?” Candace smiles slowly and stretches up against the knotted fabric holding her to the chair. Then spits at his feet. “Well, that’s not very ladylike.”

Sam chooses that moment to head back through the archway, book in hand, and Dean’s eyes naturally flick to the unexpected movement. His gaze is immediately drawn to Sam’s uncovered neck and his eyes track up the golden stretch of skin to follow the strong line of his brother’s jaw until—he tightens his fist around the car keys in his pocket. The slight jolt of pain is enough for him to jerk his eyes to the left. He keeps his fist tight around the metal and lets out a harsh breath. His tone is quiet, but tense. “You gotta warn me before you walk into a room, Sam.”

“Sorry.” His brother sounds slightly breathless. And when Dean glances over, he can see Sam’s fingers clenched around the wood of the doorway. He’s actually kind of surprised that it’s not creaking…or splintering. 

“The book?” 

Sam takes a deep breath and purposefully relaxes his hand. He flexes his fingers for a few seconds, then tosses the book onto the thick glass. “Sent it to Bobby. What I could find of the spell she used, and anything else I thought might be helpful.” He rounds the counter and comes up close, too close, to Dean’s side. “Can I talk to you?” He glances at Candace. “Privately?” 

Sam’s whispers are sending puffs of warm air across the side of Dean’s face, and he bites his tongue to distract himself. “Is that a good idea?” 

Sam gives him a rueful smile. “Probably not. But can we?”

Dean licks his lips and he can hear Sam’s breath hitch. “Shit, sorry.” His words are as quiet as his brother’s. Dean runs a hand over his face, then reluctantly gives Sam a sharp nod.

He lets Sam lead the way to the farthest bookshelf, trailed by the bitter melody of Candace’s voice. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, boys.” Dean flips her the bird over his shoulder, so she snarkily sings, “If you’re gone for more than fifteen minutes, I’m making my own assumptions.” 

She’s touched a nerve, so he shoves Sam around the corner. Which is actually a terrible move on his part because, just for a second, he can feel the solid planes of Sam’s back under the thin layer of canvas. Too thin. Dean could peel it off like nothing, strip him out of the striped button-down underneath, and spread his hands over the firm contours of Sam’s chest. Skim his fingers down Sam’s sides and press his face into the junction between his neck and shoulder. Nipping, sucking, tracing the line of Sam’s collarbone with his tongue until his brother is panting and writhing underneath him. Begging him for more. Fuck. This is a bad idea. Dean glances up to find Sam standing much closer than he was just a second ago.  _Dangerously_ close. Sam’s gaze is half-lidded and he seems to struggle internally for a moment before something breaks and he takes another step. Right into Dean’s space like he’s being drawn by a magnet. He angles his head down and leans in, agonizingly slowly, until his lips just barely brush along the corner of Dean’s jaw. And it’s torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture. Dean has to fight to stop himself from tilting his neck back for better access. “Sam,” he growls out, a quiet warning.  

His brother holds himself in place, lightly tracing his lips over Dean’s pulse point, but not pushing any further. “I’m not,” he pants. “We’re—we’re just talking.” He licks his lips and Dean can briefly feel the wet tip of Sam’s tongue against his neck. “I have to talk to you…” Sam’s words are painfully deliberate, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “It’s about—about the…  _God_ , Dean.” His breath hitches and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t stop. It—It’s your eyes, man. They’re…” He groans like it’s being dragged out of his throat against his will. “I just can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t—” He parts his lips and Dean can feel the scrape of teeth against his throat.  

Dean swallows. Hard. He can’t think past Sam’s heated breath gusting over his neck or the moist hint of his tongue. And Dean’s fingers are twitching, _yearning_ to slide into his brother’s hair. Or around his waist. Or lower. Slip into the waistband of Sam’s jeans and flick open his button fly and… And if he doesn’t do something else with them, they’re going to grab right onto Sam and refuse to let go. So Dean focuses all the energy he can into his right hand, then reels back and sucker punches his brother in the stomach. 

Sam lets out a grunt and stumbles back against the bookshelf, sending _A Compendium of Mystic Crystals_ and _The Beginner’s Guide To Chakras_ tumbling to the floor. He groans and drags himself around until he’s facing the books, hands gripping the edges of the wood. “Thanks.”

Dean’s still tingling every place Sam had touched him. Every place he had _wanted_ Sam to touch him. “Don’t mention it.”

Sam inhales deeply, then releases it in an ironic sigh. “Candace.” He chuckles bitterly. “I wanted to talk about Candace.”

“Seems appropriate.” Dean’s still got his hand tightened into a fist. He could probably get another hit in if he needed to, but he doesn’t want to have to test it.

“I wanted to know if you thought we should bring her back to the motel with us.” Sam’s face is now jammed into the crook of his arm, muffling his words. “We need to keep an eye on her until Bobby can come up with something. And I thought it would be better than staying here.”

Dean slides his gaze over and down the slope of Sam’s broad back. It’s easier than facing him, and he’s even able to eye the curve of Sam’s ass without feeling like he needs to jump his brother’s bones. Although, the way Sam’s bent against the bookshelf does send a zing of arousal straight to Dean’s dick. Which is now half-hard from earlier, thank you very much, Sam. “How long do you think?” 

“How long for Bobby to come up with something?” 

“How long do you think we’ll have to fucking babysit her?” Sam sighs and rocks his head. “Because let’s just be real here, I’m not sure how much longer we’re gonna be able to hold out, and it hasn’t even gotten to the ‘agonizing’ part yet.” Dean pulls his bottom lip through his teeth. “I don’t know, man. The more she refuses to cooperate, the more it seems like offing her is the easiest answer.” 

Sam’s shoulders stiffen, and then droop dejectedly. “Do you think she won’t stop?” Dean stays silent, and watches him listlessly pick at a splinter. “Do you _really_ think we can’t get her to agree? That’s so fucking stupid. Why would someone rather die than—” Sam sullenly shoves his face further into his forearm. “I just. I just don’t want to have to…” he trails off and broods quietly.

Goddammit. A crestfallen Sammy automatically triggers his big brother ‘make it better’ instinct. Dean loosens his fist and sighs. “Okay, look. Honestly? I think she probably doesn’t want to die.” Sam hasn’t budged, but it’s obvious he’s listening intently. “I think she knows she’s beat, but she’s pissed and she doesn’t want to back down.” He steps up behind Sam and deliberately places his hands on his sides. It’s a really, really terrible idea, but Dean’s doing it anyway. “I don’t know, maybe she’s embarrassed about losing or some stupid shit like that.” He gingerly slides his arms around his brother and exhales, bending to rest his face in between Sam’s shoulder blades. It feels like coming home, and as he breathes Sam in, the ache in his chest begins to lessen. Crap. He didn’t even realize that there _was_ an ache in his chest. Looks like the spell is moving way faster than he thought. Sam moves to twist around in his embrace, but Dean locks his grip, rigid as stone. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t turn around.” It’s a command, so he makes sure to play up his ‘Dad’ voice in order to cover the uncertainty in his own tone. Sam makes a plaintive noise, but he grudgingly concedes and forces himself to still in Dean’s arms. Huh, twice in one day. It’s a new record.

“So, what should we do?” Sam’s words are quiet, barely above a whisper, and it’s clear that he’s struggling to remain motionless.

Dean plants a soft kiss to the cloth covering Sam’s bowed back. “We take her back to the room and we keep an eye on her, like you said.” He can feel Sam nod into the crook of his own elbow. “I’ll do my absolute best not to fuck you against the wall—” Sam whimpers brokenly and his hips stutter up against nothing, and Dean has to bite back a cry of his own at the motion. “Shit. Shit, sorry. Turn of phrase.” He runs a hand down his brother’s side in apology, but it’s probably not helping much. Dean rephrases. “We’ll do our best to keep our hands off until Bobby can figure out a counter spell. Then, I’m gonna place a gun to Candace’s temple until she swears up and down that she’s done with magic forever. She says ‘yes’, we burn the book, and we all go on our merry way.” Dean focuses on keeping his hips as far away from Sam’s body as he possibly can. “So there’s no reason for her to tell Bobby anything and everyone gets out, dignity intact. Sound like a plan?” Of course, the secret final step of the plan is that Dean is going to fuck his little brother on every single available surface in their crummy motel room, but he figures that saying anything out loud right now isn’t going to do much to help their current situation. 

Sam lets out a long, drawn-out sigh, obviously attempting to keep Dean from moving away for as long as he can. It’s kind of cute, actually. Eventually, he nods, and grips the bookshelf like steel as Dean pulls away. Dean would be lying if he said that he wasn’t dragging his feet a little at letting go of Sam as well. The moment his fingertips completely slide off the younger man’s back, his heart gives a sharp and painful twinge in his chest. Well, _that’s_ reassuring. It’s not unbearable, but he really thought they’d have more time before the pain started to show up. Dean gives his brother one more lingering glance and tries to ignore the insidious whispers rattling around in his brain.  _You could stay. You could go back to him. Touch him. He **wants** you to. He **needs** you to._  Then, he turns on his heel and strolls back out to the main area of the shop. The perfect image of casual indifference. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They manage to wrangle Candace out of her fabric prison and drag her to the car. Luckily, the mini mall is just as deserted as it always is, and all Dean has to do is angle his body to hide the pistol he’s got crammed against her lower spine. They stand there just long enough for Sam to find and grab the iron manacles they’ve got stashed in the trunk, and Dean feels like a small weight is lifted once they finally get them fastened over her wrists. At least they don’t have to worry about any more extra magic for today. Their hands are pretty full as is. They succeed in getting Candace to sit in the back without too much of a fuss either. Dean off-handedly mentions something about the trunk being much less cozy, and she caves surprisingly quick. 

During the drive, Dean is barely able to endure Sam’s proximity by clenching his hands around the wheel until they go completely white and he loses all feeling in them. And by turning CCR up high enough that Fogerty starts approaching eardrum-shattering levels. He’s not sure how Sam does it, but the intense expression on his brother’s face hints at sheer force of will. Which is actually pretty impressive. They pull into the _Royalty Inn_ lot and it’s, thankfully, mostly empty. Lunch crowd probably just headed out. Dean manhandles Candace under his arm while Sam deals with the door, and it looks for all the world like they’re just a regular couple. With their third wheel. Granted, it probably comes off a little jailbait-y, but it’s much better than looking like two men are forcing a teenage girl into their motel room at gunpoint. 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, all three of them drop the act. Dean tosses his keys down and shoves Candace into the crummy chair while she glares at him like a viper. Pieces of her hair have escaped her careful maintained updo to randomly fall in uneven tendrils around her face. It makes her look like even more of a lunatic than normal. “I could scream, you know,” she hisses. 

Huh, Dean hadn’t thought of that. They should probably have thought about that. Sam unthinkingly tosses him a quick, worried look and Dean is mesmerized by the deep blues and hazels swirling through his brother’s gaze. He feels like doing something crazy. Like writing Sam a sonnet. Dean could totally write a sonnet, it’s just like song lyrics right? Not that he’s had much practice writing song lyrics, but if Jim Morrison can do it, then Dean sure as hell can. He could probably write the most awesome sonnet there ever was. Come to think of it, Sam would probably have a really informed explanation of why a sonnet was, in fact, nothing like song lyrics. Because Sammy is a fucking genius. Dean’s gonna write a sonnet about how much of a genius his brother is. 

Candace clears her throat. Loudly. It’s just enough to snap them out of it. Dean recoils in horror at his own thoughts, and then grunts in pain. Fuck that’s really starting to hurt. He deliberately shoves any ideas about poetry so far out of his head that they’d need fucking Danny Ocean to get back in. Oh god, he’s so messed up he’s actually referencing bad Clooney movies. Sam, for his part, just self-consciously lowers the hand that had somehow ended up stretched out between them.

Dean turns to Candace and gives her a mean-spirited smile. Because even though she’d put an evil sex curse on him and his brother, being ignored is apparently just _unacceptably_ rude. “Screaming, huh?” He shrugs and glues on his cruelest smirk. “Go for it. You should hear the porn I’ve been listening to these last couple days. You’ll fit right in, kitten.” Sam chokes beside him, but manages to cover it with a cough. “So why don’t you sit there, quietly, like a good little hostage until we figure out a way to stop all of this?”

Candace steams like Old Michigan but doesn’t actually resort to screaming. Instead, she just grimaces and lifts her hands coolly. “And these?”

“Ah, well. You see, us big, scary hunters have quite a few tricks for dealing with witches like yourself. For example, iron cuffs.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Magic-proof. Slap a pair of those on and you’re more useless than a dick on a priest. Ain’t that right, Sammy?” His brother makes a strangled sound and there’s a heavy thump to Dean’s right, like Sam’s slammed a fist onto the nightstand. “Sorry! Shit. I’m sorry.  _Sam_. I meant _Sam_. Sorry.”

There’s another strangled sound from Sam’s side of the room. “Oh God, stop apologizing.”

Dean can’t help it. He tries, he really does, but he cannot keep the laughter from escaping his throat. “Seriously? Me _apologizing?_  That’s ringing your bell?”

“Shut up, Dean.” The words are growled under his brother’s breath. “Maybe it’s because it’s so fucking _rare_. Now please shut the fuck up.”

Dean laughs harder. “Just looking for a little silver lining here, _Sam_.”

“You don’t quit laughing I’m gonna take my goddamn shirt off. How’s that for silver lining?”

Now Dean has to stop in order to choke off a groan. “That’s a really fucking terrible idea, Sam.” 

“I know, so _shut up_.” 

They simultaneously call a mental truce, but Dean catches Candace leering at them silently. She smirks when she catches his eye. “Oh don’t mind me, boys. Do what you gotta do.” 

They’re saved from having to respond by the electronic blaring of Dean’s ringtone. Sam glares at Candace to keep silent while Dean flips his phone open and presses the speaker button. “Hey Bobby, whatcha got? 

“Well, I looked at these pages you sent me, but it’s not gonna be as easy as I was hoping.” 

Dean sighs and rubs his forehead. “Of course not. When is it ever?”

“This book you got here is about as scarce as hen’s teeth. I’ve never seen anything like it. Near as I can figure, it’s Romani.” 

Dean furrows his brow. “You mean Romulan? Like from Star Trek?”

Sam snorts. “Dude, no. ‘Romani’ is the non-racist term for Gypsies.”

Dean makes a face. “How is ‘Gypsies’ racist?” 

He doesn’t even need to hear Sam’s sigh to picture his brother’s ‘politically-correct’ face. “I really don’t think we have the time to get into it right now.” 

“Jesus. No need to get so bitchy, I’m just asking.”

“It’s a really sensitive issue, Dean. For an entire culture. Could you maybe just leave it at that?”

“Boys!” Bobby sighs on his end of the line. “Are you two done?” They both grumble an apology and Bobby continues. “Alright, so this spell is not your typical hoodoo. Most Gypsy,” he coughs, “sorry— _Romani_ magic is based off of love and harmony and all that crap, so a spell forcing people together is pretty rare in and of itself.” 

Dean purposefully keeps his face as blank as he can. Looks like Sam had been right about the targets of the spell, but they _really_ don’t need Candace to know that. Plus, now they have to be extra careful about Bobby finding out, just in case he comes to the same conclusion they did. “How long do you think, Bobby?”

“I’ll work at it, but I can’t say for sure. Probably’ll be around an hour. At least.” 

Dean grimaces. “Alright, Bobby. Thanks.” He flips his cell shut and sucks at his teeth. “An hour. So…what now?” He glances around the room, but neither of his companions are any help at all. Sam is dutifully staring at the wall and Candace just gives him the stink-eye. Dean sighs and thumps down onto his bed. “Great. Time’s just gonna _fly_ by.”

He manages to rustle up his deck of cards after a little while, not that everyone’s complete silence isn’t riveting, and starts a lackluster game of Solitaire on his bedspread. It keeps him somewhat busy for about twenty minutes, until he starts thinking about the last time him and Sam had pulled out this particular deck. It had been around one-thirty in the morning, a couple of weeks ago, and they’d been at one of those 24-hour Laundromats. The place was deserted except for them, nothing but unpleasant fluorescent lights and the repetitive churning sound of laundry extending into eternity, so they’d pulled out the cards to entertain themselves. They’d been well into their third game, kind of a mixture between Go Fish and Slapjack that they’d invented when they were kids, when Sam had gotten a deliciously sinful look in his eye and suggested that they up the stakes. From then on, if either of them managed to avoid a slap (and there was always a lot of slapping), the other one had to lose a piece of clothing. And because Dean is superior in almost all respects, Sam had lost. A lot. In fact, they hadn’t even finished the last game before Dean had scattered the deck and practically jumped his brother, hoisting him onto the nearest washing machine and sinking to his knees…

Dean snaps back into the present and adjusts himself as subtly as possible. Luckily, the room’s other occupants don’t seem to be paying enough attention to notice anything amiss. Most of Candace’s fire has burned out by now, leaving her to mope dejectedly at the table, while Sam sits on the other bed, intentionally facing away from Dean and picking at the skin of his fingers. Dean glances at his half-finished game. He’s pretty sure that a few of the cards are still hiding under a dryer in Wisconsin, which would explain why he can’t find the fourth fucking ace. Great. Not only is Dean unable to finish his game, but he’s also gonna have to go buy some new cards now. Maybe he can lift some from the next Gas-Mart they pass. Since Solitaire is pretty much bullshit anyway, he sweeps the cards off his bed with the back of his hand. They all slide off except for one joker, which makes Dean smile, so he flicks it over to Sam.

His brother frowns and picks up the card Dean had snapped at the side of his head. He flips it over and gives an almost unnoticeable flinch before a grudging smile takes over his face. Sam cuts an amused glance over to Dean’s chest, then freezes and slams his eyes shut. He swallows with a pained expression and refuses to look at Dean while he talks. “Hey, man. Do you, uh— Do you think you could maybe take your amulet off?” He can’t see Dean’s shocked and upset face, but he obviously expects it, because he continues, “Or just, tuck it under your shirt or something? It’s a little, uh…” He gestures with his hand, then catches himself and forces them both back into his lap. 

 _Oh_. “Uh, sure. Yeah.” Dean fingers the charm for a second before tucking it against his chest and out of sight. “No problem.” But it is kind of a problem, because the thought of his amulet having such an effect on Sam is getting him all hot and bothered too. Not that he’d exactly been revving from zero to begin with. But Sam had given him the necklace a million fucking years ago. And he liked seeing it on Dean. It _did_ things to him. Maybe it tugged at that little animalistic streak of his. That carnal, possessive part of Sam that seeped out whenever Dean talked a little too much about his latest one night stand or whenever he tried to hint that Sam might be better of without him. The searingly hot way Sam would growl against his neck and claw his fingers into Dean’s sides. How he would mark Dean up with his teeth. How he would _claim_ , sucking and biting at Dean’s throat, his chest, his hip, anywhere he could reach. Maybe it sent a little electric thrill up his brother’s spine every single time he saw it. Irrefutable, undeniable proof that Dean was _his_.  _Jesus Christ_. Dean scrubs a hand over his face and tries to forcibly get himself under control again. Which, of course, leads to another aching throb in his chest. Because those are just so much fun. From the look of Sam’s back, rigid as stone, his brother isn’t faring much better. 

Dean is seconds away from jabbing something into his thigh to distract himself, when Candace finally speaks again. “Can I at least use the bathroom?” she asks bitterly, gazing at the table in front of her, then sluggishly lifting her head to meet Dean’s eyes. “Or is that not allowed?” She curls her arms in on herself and clenches her jaw. She looks…pathetic. And Dean almost actually feels bad for her. 

Sam pushes himself off from the bed before Dean can make a decision. “Uh, sure. I mean, of course.” He takes a step closer and gives Candace his puppy dog eyes. “Just, please don’t, um, try to leave or anything. Please.” She actually looks amused by Sam’s good cop and even gives him an almost-smile as she passes. 

Dean is less impressed. “Ten minutes” he growls at the door. “I ain’t kidding, lady. If I have to, I will come in and get you.” The only response is the running of the faucet. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam snaps, looking scandalized. 

Dean makes a face. “What?”

“We’re trying to get her to cooperate with us here, and it’s finally working. So could you please shut up?” Sam agitatedly runs a hand through his hair. “This might even work out all fine and no one will get hurt and everything will be good for once in our lives. So could you just—” He clenches his hands into fists and brings them up to rest his forehead on, and his breathing is edging dangerously close to hyperventilation territory. “Please.” Sam scrunches his eyes shut and tugs at his hair again.

“Whoa, Sammy. Jesus.” Dean grabs his brother’s hands and pulls them away before he can do any real damage to himself. “What’s the big deal? Since when do you give such a damn about the random monster of the week anyway?”

Sam jerks to the side, but Dean’s grasp on his hands remains firm. “Let go.”

“No. What’s up with you?”

Sam tugs at his hands again. “It’s nothing. Just fucking drop it.”

“Yeah fucking right.” Dean ducks his head, but Sam jerks his gaze away. “If you seriously won’t tell me what’s going on—”

“I killed two innocent people, Dean!” 

“…What?” Dean’s blood turns to solid ice in his veins. “When?” 

Sam looks miserable, and he’s still not meeting Dean’s eyes. “In Ohio. Those two demons. I shot them with the Colt.”

The relief is so strong and sudden that Dean actually laughs. Sam, however, remains unamused. “What, you mean Casey and that priest? They were _demons_ , Sam.” 

“Demons that were possessing _humans_ , Dean! I hate having to—” He pulls at Dean’s unyielding grip once more, then lets out a broken sigh and finally gives up. “I just wish there was some way, some exorcism that could…you know?” His shoulders fall into a defeated slump. “If there was a way we could find to exorcise them quickly and not hurt the hosts …” 

Dean cuts him off before Sam can get too maudlin with the what-ifs. And Casey was pretty decent, for a demon, but it’s not worth the guilt on his brother’s face. “Look, I know it sucks, but they were monsters, man. I’m sure you did a lot more good by ganking them before they could hurt anyone else.” 

Sam doesn’t look cheered by Dean’s pep talk. If anything, he slinks down even more. It’s actually kind of impressive how a man the size of a fucking redwood can manage to look so small. “That’s not all of it.” Sam pauses to shore himself up before he continues. “In that jail in Colorado last month. I was…” he swallows. “I was ready to kill that girl. The virgin.  _Nancy_.” He says the girl’s name like a benediction. Like if he can manage to remember her name, it will absolve him. “Ruby said it was the only way and—and the way it turned out? Maybe she was right, but… I wanted to do it. Not _wanted_ to, but I thought it made sense. And I was ready to—” He clenches his fists tighter in Dean’s grasp. “You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. You’re so _good_ , Dean. You’re this hero, and I’m—I’m…” Sam finally drags his eyes up, about level with Dean’s jaw. His words are so quiet that Dean can barely hear it when he continues. “There’s something _evil_ inside of me.”

His brother looks wrecked. And terrified. So Dean consciously sets his voice dial to ‘gentle’. “Is this about the psychic crap? Have you been having visions again?”

Sam exhaustedly drops his head into the hollow of Dean’s shoulder. “No, but—”

“Then it doesn’t matter, Sam. You’re not evil just because some Yellow-Eyed dick bag thought you’d make a good addition to the away team.” Sam nudges his way around the collar of Dean’s jacket so he can turn his face into Dean’s neck. Dean can feel his brother’s smile against his skin. “Hell, I’d say he’s guilty of good taste.”  

Sam huffs out a laugh and moves upwards, nuzzling over his throat. “You’re wrong, Dean.” He grazes his lips along the edge of Dean’s jaw. 

“ _Sam_.” It’s a warning.

“You think I’m better than I am. You always have.” Sam’s tongue sneaks out to taste skin, and it sends a shiver down Dean’s spine.

“Sammy, you have to stop.” It’s barely a whisper. 

“There’s always been something. Something…” Sam _(finally)_ completely gives up on holding back and opens his mouth to teasingly suck at Dean’s neck. He uses the hold Dean’s got on his hands to pull them together, then lets out a series of little, needy sounds as he continues to work down Dean’s throat and along his collarbone. He twists his fingers into what he can reach of Dean’s shirt and leaves a lingering open-mouthed kiss to the top of his chest. Tender and possessive. 

And that’s it. Dean’s only human. A fucking saint couldn’t hold out this long. He grabs the sides of Sam’s face and hauls him up to smash their lips together. They both let out simultaneous moans of relief and Dean’s chest cracks open, bleeding out all of the tension and aching misery that had built up from all the times they haven’t been touching. He gets his hands tangled in his brother’s hair and Sam releases his grip on Dean’s shirt in order to slip under his jacket and around his back, crushing them together, as close as they can physically get. Dean slides a palm down to cradle Sam’s face and angles his head for a better position. He sweeps his tongue over the seam of his brother’s lips and Sam opens, letting Dean slip his tongue inside and along his own. A bloom of arousal— _no,_ _no, it’s the spell_ —fills Dean’s chest and overflows in warm rivulets down the rest of his body. It bleeds into every desolate crack and every unseen fracture of insecurity in his being, and it flows from his fingertips and into Sam at every place they're touching. Like liquid heat. Sam allows him to worship with his lips, gentle and loving. He licks at the roof of his brother’s mouth and sucks Sam’s top lip in between both of his, tracing every soft ridge and groove with his tongue, and Sam buckles under his ministrations.  

Dean _wants_. He _needs_. Right now. Fuck everything else. He drags his hands down to grab Sam’s ass, pulling them flush so he can feel the hard line of his brother’s cock against his own— _no, stop, there’s something_ —and apparently Sam is right on fucking board, because now he’s biting at Dean’s mouth, wildly attacking his lips and flipping him back against the nearest wall. Sam groans and braces his strong arms on either side of Dean’s head— _they can’t do this, they have to—_ and Dean uses the opportunity to slip his hands under Sam’s shirts, skating his thumbs down the lines of Sam’s hips and dipping below his waistband. There isn’t anything else. It’s just them. Forever. Sam and Dean, together, like they’re supposed to be. For the rest of their lives. 

 _For the rest of their lives_.  

It’s like a bucket of ice water being dumped over Dean’s head. The rest of Dean’s life is two fucking months. Because he’s going to Hell. Because he has to save Sam’s _(Sammy’s)_ life. And there’s no forever anything for them, because Dean is gonna die and Sam will move on and that’s normal _(healthy)_ and good. “Sam, stop. Bobby—”

“Mm-hmm. Bobby.” Sam brushes his fingers over Dean’s bottom lip and mouths at the side of his jaw. And Dean’s willing to bet that he has no idea what he’s just said. 

“Sam, c’mon.” But Sam just uses the fact that Dean’s opened his mouth to slip his fingers inside. “Sammy, we gotta stop.” God, he wishes that he actually sounds like he means it. Sam grazes Dean’s earlobe with his teeth and brings his other hand down to palm Dean’s cock.  _Oh, Jesus fuck_. 

“ _Sam_.” Dean brings his hand up and forcibly shoves his brother’s face away, keeping his arm locked until Sam stops pushing. 

Sam half-heartedly struggles for a confused couple of seconds, then stiffens and lets out a miserable groan. “ _Jesus_.” He sags against Dean, resting his face against Dean’s still-extended hand. “Sorry. I didn’t—fuck. Sorry.”

A miserable excuse for a laugh escapes Dean’s throat. “Not your fault.”

Sam lets out a pathetic half-laugh as well, muffled somewhat by Dean’s fingers. “Yeah, sure.”

They both take a couple moments to breathe, and to be honest, they’re mostly reluctant to completely let go. But Dean eventually asks, “All good?” and Sam nods, so he pushes off the wall and Sam backs away.

 **_Oh god no too far away can’t breathe no can’t feel gonna die can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe—_**

The pain is blinding. Agonizing— _“You said the secret word”_ —and Dean feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest and shredded, piece by piece. It takes a few seconds for the white-hot glare of pain to fade away, and by the time Dean comes back to himself, he’s all twisted up in Sam’s shirt. His hands are gripping his brother’s chest, over his heart, and Sam’s hands are covering his. Sam’s heart is _pounding_ and from the look on his face, it probably aches just as much as Dean’s does. 

Sam stares at him in sheer bewilderment and Dean needs to _fix it. He needs to make it better. His little brother needs him to make it better. Anything. He’ll do anything._ Sam’s eyelids lower and his pupils darken, bleeding all the color out of his irises. Dean’s gaze goes hooded as well and he leans up to meet Sam halfway.  _Shit. Fuck. No. Stop it._ Dean wrenches his face to the side at the last second and digs his forehead into Sam’s shoulder, panting. “We have to…” 

“Right. Yup, okay.” Sam’s arms are trembling and it sounds like he’s straining his words through his teeth. 

Dean flexes his fingers under Sam’s. “Okay. On three?” 

“One, two, then push? Or one, two, three, then push?” 

“What, seriously?” Leave it to Sam to nitpick at a time like this. “Does it fucking matter?” 

“Yes, Dean. It fucking matters,” Sam snits.

“Okay, fine. Jesus. The first one.” He can feel Sam nod against the side of his head. “Okay. One… Two…”

Sam flips to his back against the wall and Dean shoves off into the middle of the room. And it hurts like a fucking _motherfucker_. The blinding white haze of pain is back and the throbbing ache in his heart has evolved into a full-fledged continuous whine of resonating torture. “Fuck fuck FUCK! OW!”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Sam pants. The pain causes his voice to crack. “Very eloquent.” He’s slumped down against the wall, eyes screwed shut, with his fingers digging into his knees.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean kicks over the unused second chair and slams his fist down onto the table. He hears something break, which means he’s gonna have to pay for it. Because this is the worst day ever. Dean leans over and braces himself on the cheap plastic. “ _Fuck_.” 

The bathroom door clicks open and Candace stops at the sight of the two men, hunched over in agony. Dean expects her to laugh. Or be fucking thrilled or whatever. But she just looks confused. “It’s not supposed to—” She nervously glances between them. “What time did you touch the hex bag? It was today, right?”

Dean bites out a, “Who the fuck cares,” but it’s eclipsed by Sam’s actual response. 

“A few hours ago. Eleven or so.” He groans and lifts his head from the wall. “Does it matter?”

Candace just frowns and shakes her head. “It’s not supposed to…” She collects herself and sits back in her hostage chair. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Well _that’s_ not worrisome at all. Dean is about to grill her some more, when Sam finally manages to get himself standing. He pushes away from the wall and stumbles toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna just, uh, shower.”

Oh, god. Dean knows exactly why his brother feels the sudden need to grab a shower. And the rousing bout of pain he just went through hasn’t managed to calm Dean down either. The images blaze unbidden through his mind. Sam stripped down. Naked, as the water sluices over his chest and down his back. All that tan length of him, glistening and wet. And hard. He’ll place one of his giant hands against the tile to brace himself, just like he does when Dean’s with him. And his other hand will slide down over the line of his abs. Slowly. To curl around the base of his dick and pull. Stroking and gasping. And he’ll bite at his bottom lip, darkening the sensitive skin with his teeth. And he’ll make those little whimpers that he does whenever Dean’s got his hands on him. And if Dean were there, he could slide his arms around his brother. Reach down and replace Sam’s hand with his own. Mouth at the back of Sam’s neck and press his own erection against Sam’s ass. Pull his brother flush, chest to back, and rock up against him. Into him.  _You could do it. The shower’s right there. He needs you._

“Lunch!” Dean shoves himself upright so fast, he almost overbalances and tips over again. “Lunch. I’m gonna go—” He shucks off his jacket so he can drape it over his arm and hold it in front of his crotch. Because there’s no way he’s heading outside without revealing to the world what he’d just been up to. “Right. There’s a whatever. Across the street. I’m gonna…” He gestures with his head, then turns to the still-seated Candace. Who’s actually behaving, which is surprising. “I’ve got a full view of the front door. So if you try to pull a Houdini, I _will_ see it. And I will stop being so warm and cuddly.  _Capisce?”_  

He expects her to roll her eyes, or glare at him, but she just nods and goes back to giving the table her depressed zombie-stare. “Sure. Got it.” 

Huh, maybe Sam was right about her changing her mind. “Uh, good.” Dean double checks he’s got the motel keycard in his pocket, then turns to leave without even glancing _—don’t look, don’t look, don’t look at Sammy—_ at his brother.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean returns with an armful of Jack-in-the-Box and a more manageable downstairs situation than when he left. The four hundred pound ex-con in front of him in line had smelled like he’d never even heard of the concept of bathing, and it had done wonders for Dean’s little problem. Well, not little. Actually it was a pretty sizeable problem. He’d certainly never heard any complaints. To be perfectly clear, Dean is definitely no slouch in the, uh, problem department. He tosses one of the bags to Candace, who pauses for a moment, but eventually stirs herself enough to open it and reach in for the burger he’d grabbed her. Dean had got Sam some sort of Southwest something-or-other salad too, so he knows that he’s going to have to at least acknowledge his brother’s existence if he wants to hand over the food. He steels himself and rakes his gaze over to Sam. His hair is still slightly damp, but Dean really hadn’t been gone that long. Which means that Sam had deliberately made sure to dry himself as thoroughly as possible. Which was actually pretty thoughtful. If Sam’s hair had been soaked and dark, it probably would have been slicked back from his face. The ends would’ve been curled under his ears with the moisture and little drops of water would have slid down the back of his neck to— _Jesus fucking Christ_. Latin. That’s what Dean needs. Latin. He’s halfway through the Rituale Romanum before Sam interrupts his mental recitation.

“Um, is that for me, dude?” He actually looks amused by Dean’s suffering. Which isn’t unreasonable, because Dean’s pretty sure he’s been standing around like an idiot for the last few minutes.

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he simply grunts in reply and lobs the plastic container at Sam’s chest. Candace is eating quietly, in her own depressing little world, so he decides to park it on the bed, next to Sam. They eat in relatively peaceful silence for a while, until Dean can’t hold back his curiosity any longer. He speaks in a hushed tone, so Candace doesn’t overhear. “So, did you, uh…?”

Sam flushes and fiddles with his plastic fork. “Yeah.”

“Did it help any?”

Sam’s voice sounds wrecked. And pitiful. “…No.” 

“Oh.” They sit in silence for another moment, more awkward this time. Then Dean chuckles. Sam throws him a bitchface, but Dean feels a little like he’s coming unhinged because he can’t seem to stop himself. “No wonder Tony proposed, huh?”

Sam gapes at him for a few more seconds, then smiles humorlessly. “Yeah. It’s kind of intense.”

Dean sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, kinda.” It’s the understatement of the year. Sam nods, and glances down to quietly glower at his own feet. Then, his expression turns determined and he tightens his fist around the little plastic utensil until the neck snaps in his hand. “Sam, what—?” 

Sam shoves himself off the bed and stalks over to Candace. It’s painful as fuck because the further away from him Sam gets, the more it feels like Dean’s heart is being crushed in a vise. It has to be hurting Sam just as much, but his brother doesn’t even falter. Candace barely glances at him as he grabs the chair Dean had tipped over and plants it directly across from her. He sits and fixes her with an unwavering stare until she finally looks up at him. “It’s enough now, right? We’ve suffered enough?” Sam’s tone is more gentle than intimidating, but his conviction is clear. “You’re done? Can this just please be over?” 

Candace crumples and pulls her arms against herself. “I can’t.”

“You can, it’s okay.” Sam reaches out a hand to cover both of hers. “Please.” He sighs. “Candace, please.”

She wilts under Sam’s gaze and nods despondently. “I never meant it like this. I swear I didn’t. You have to believe me.” She throws Sam a desperate look and he gives her an understanding nod in return. “But my husband—” she scrubs the back of her hand across her eyes, “my _ex_ -husband. He left.” Candace holds back more tears and soldiers on. “He left me for a girl. She was nineteen.  _Nineteen_. He was forty-seven and she was a goddamn child and…” She cuts herself off and makes a bitter sound. It’s not exactly a sob, but it’s far too dark to be laughter. “I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt everyone. I ripped through my stuff and I found that book and…” Her lips twitch into a mockery of a smile. “They were the first ones. I slipped the hex bag into her purse and she left him for a yoga instructor. I thought that maybe—maybe he’d be shattered and he’d come crawling back, but…he didn’t. He _didn’t_.” She breaks into full-on tears then and Dean feels a little awkward, like maybe he should be over there, _reassuring_ her or something. But he has no fucking clue what to do about chick stuff and Sam seems to be handling it okay, and Candace eventually pulls herself together. “He didn’t come back…and I had no idea what to do. We were together for twenty years. All of the goals and desires I had for my life had completely imploded.” She shoots Sam another look of wild desperation. “What are you supposed to do when the love of your life is gone? How are you supposed to move on from that?”

Sam flinches at her words and wrenches his eyes away. He swallows a couple of times, then whispers, “I don’t know.”

Candace doesn’t seem to catch the wrecked nature of Sam’s response, and bulldozes on. “I thought that if I was powerful, it would be better. That I would feel better. So I kept doing it. I kept—” She breaks off and is quiet for a long time. Sam doesn’t say anything to disturb her silence, and eventually she snarls, “I got stronger. It gave me power and it gave me youth, but…” She lets out a miserable laugh. “I didn’t even want it. Do you actually think I wanted to look like a teenager? I just didn’t know what else to do and I was already on this path and I figured that I’d better see it through. Just because.” Candace finally succumbs to her misery and folds in on herself. “I’m sorry about—” She half-heartedly gestures to Dean on the bed. “I’ll do it, whatever Singer wants me to, I’ll… I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Sam gives her a kind smile. He sounds far more forgiving than Dean is, even after her sob story. “Thank you.” She simply nods and pulls her hands away to wipe at her face. Sam rises to his feet and moves back over to Dean. “You should call Bobby.” 

“Sam…”

“Just, call Bobby.” He gives Dean a pained, but apologetic, look. “Please?” 

Dean sighs and pulls out his cell. “’Course, Sammy.” Sam gets a wretched look on his face and twitches his hand out toward Dean’s before he seems to realize what he’s doing. He squeezes his eyes shut and stalks over to the other bed, turning away and rubbing at his chest. Dean’s heart aches in sympathy, or probably just aches, but Bobby’s counter spell is gonna fix a whole lot more than anything else Dean can do right now. Well…not _anything_ — ** _Stop it!_**  He dials the appropriate number and rubs a hand over his eyes. Bobby picks up after the third ring. “Hey Bobby, anything yet?”

“I was actually just gonna call you boys.”

“Fantastic.” Dean sighs and sits up. “Whatcha got?” 

“Well…it ain’t exactly a counter spell, but I’ve got a way to break the ties between the witch and the hex bags. If there are any still out there, it should render ‘em harmless.”

Not perfectly ideal, but it’s better than nothing. They can probably just shoo Candace out the door after they finish Bobby’s ritual, and then break the spell the old fashioned way. Little Dean twinges hopefully at the thought. “What is it?” 

“It’s just a spell you gotta repeat.” Bobby sighs and changes the subject. “Dean, you know that this isn’t your typical sex curse right?  Dean freezes. If Bobby figured it out, they’re gonna need a lot more explanation than he can give right now. “It’s deeper than that. And it ain’t no black magic, neither.”

“Doesn’t matter right now, Bobby.” Dean puts on an uninterested tone that he hopes is convincing enough to fool the smartest man he knows. “We fix the hoodoo, and then we can all chat about what a special snowflake the spell is.” 

“Alright,” Bobby grumbles, “put your brother on.”

“What? Jesus Christ, Bobby. I’m not an idiot. I can handle directions for a fucking spell.”

“I need you idjits to copy down a recitation. How’s your _Ukrainian_ , Dean?”

Oh. That makes sense. “Fine, here’s Sam.” He throws the phone at his brother with a sour look. Then also tosses him the motel pad from his nightstand. “Here you go, Sam. Ukrainian. Basically a wet dream for you, right?” His brother glares at him, then ignores him as he starts writing down whatever Bobby’s telling him.  

After a few minutes, Sam says his goodbyes and hangs up, tossing the phone back to Dean. “Simple enough. We recite this spell over the witch and one of the hex bags and that’s it.” 

“Wait, really? That _is_ simple.” They’re probably overdue for some good luck, but it’s rare enough that Dean is still astonished every time it happens. 

Sam chuckles. “Yeah. Looks like it’ll be easy for once.”

Dean shoulder checks his brother as he passes and grumbles, “Your definition of ‘easy’ is not my definition of ‘easy’.”

Sam laughs in agreement and follows him to stand in front of Candace, turning his attention to her. “So, we’re all settled on this? This is alright?”  

She nods and holds out her hands. “Do you need these off?” 

Dean ponders for a moment. It would probably be smarter to remove any iron before they started slinging around magic, but he’s not entirely sure that she isn’t gonna bolt the instant they free her. Or launch some other terrifying hex at their faces. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam shoots at him in his bitchiest tone.

“Fine.” He bends down to unlock the cuffs. “Just—don’t turn us into frogs or anything.” He gets a hint of a smile for that one, and can’t help but feel like maybe Candace isn’t a world-class bitch after all. He pulls off the heavy manacles and tosses them onto the bed behind him. “There you go, Endora. All juiced up and ready to go.” 

He backs up and nods to Sam, who pulls out the hex bag from his own pocket and places it on the table next to Candace. He gives her one more questioning glance, then begins to recite from the notepad in his hand. It sounds like gibberish to Dean, but most of the gibberish he deals with ends up being pretty potent, so he bites his tongue and waits for his brother to finish. Sam completes the incantation and stills, checking for any evidence that the spell worked. He glances at Candace, but she just shrugs. 

They all stand there in silence for a moment until Dean snaps his fingers. “Wait, I got it.” He heads over to the nightstand and snags the zemi he’d left there, then tosses it to Sam. “I burned myself on that shitty thing last time. It’s your turn.” Sam laughs, and an electric bolt of lust zings right through Dean’s dick. They’re almost home-free and Dean is about willing to buy Candace some champagne if it means that he finally, _finally_ gets to fuck his brother. He makes a face. God, he really is one sick son of a bitch. The familiar guilt creeps up on him, but it isn’t quite enough to put a damper on the magically-induced arousal thrumming through his body. 

Sam leans down and runs the zemi over the hex bag. Dean winces in anticipation, but his brother doesn’t seem to be getting burned at all. Sam makes a few more passes over the cloth, but it looks like they’re in the clear. He drops the stone onto the table and grins at Candace. “So, we’re good right? You’re done with all the witchcraft and everything can go back to normal?”

She shakily grins back at him and breaks into a relieved laugh. It’s actually kind of beautiful when she isn’t cackling like a super villain, it sounds a little like the bells from the front of her shop. “Yes, we’re good. I swear.” She shyly smiles at both of them in turn and suddenly Dean can see the hero that Bobby must have met. “Thank you.” She grasps Sam’s hand. “And you’ll be okay?” She gestures between the both of them. “It’s stopped?”

Dean interrupts before Sam can get too sincere and trample his big feet all over the out she’s just given them. “Yup. We’re all good. Spell’s broken and everything’s just hunky-dory.” Sam smiles at Dean’s transparent attempt at deception and gives her a sheepish shrug.

She squeezes his hand. “Good. Again, I’m so sorry.” She gives Dean an embarrassed look. “I’m not even sure what was going on with the spell around you two. It was so unnerving.” 

Dean freezes. “What do you mean?” 

Candace bites her lip. “It doesn’t really matter now, but…it’s not supposed to come on that strong. All of the other people infected didn’t start to feel anything for a day or so. And it took a couple more days for the feelings to get distracting. And then a few more days after that for it to get painful.” She shakes her head. “I really have no idea why it worked so fast on you two.” Dean’s unsettled by the information Candace just flippantly dropped on them, and Sam’s back looks nervously tense as well. She finally releases his brother’s hand and runs her hands through her messy hair. “Well, I’m going to stop torturing you with my presence,” she laughs, “but if you ever need my help, please feel free to come ask. I really am sorry, and I owe you about a thousand favors.” 

Sam ducks to grab Dean’s keys from the table. “Here, I’ll drive you back to your shop.” Dean fights back a groan at his brother’s unswerving politeness. If Sam gets that far away, the pain in their chests is gonna be excruciating, but Dean figures he’ll be able to hold it together until Sam comes back. And then they’ll _finally_ be alone.

Candace smiles in thanks and moves to the door. “If you insist. I couldn’t possibly—” She stops short and clasps a hand to her chest. 

Sam touches her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Her look of concern smoothes out into one of gratefulness again. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.” She takes another step and cries out, almost falling to her knees before Sam can catch her. She pants through another bolt of pain. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s happening.” 

Dean moves over to her side as well, pressing his knuckles to her sternum to see if he can find anything out of the ordinary. “Did you feel anything break or crack?” He scrutinizes her face. “Maybe when we tied you up?”

She shakes her head as another flash of pain racks her body. “No. N-nothing like that.”

Dean pulls Candace out of Sam’s hands, ignoring his brother’s affronted noise, and lays her out on her back and pushes up her knees. He runs through his dad’s ingrained first aid steps.  _“ABCs Dean-o. Ribs are easy to tell, internal anything else isn’t. Watch out for Sammy.”_  He slides his hands down Candace’s sides. Her breathing seems shallow whenever she shudders through another pain spike, but it’s deep enough that nothing seems to be broken. Dean checks her nail beds anyway. 

“Dean.” 

Dean slides his thumbs down to her abdomen and presses to check for bleeding, but that seems pretty okay too. 

“ _Dean_.” 

He feels for her pulse as well. It’s fast, pounding even. Makes sense with the pain but not indicative of any actual heart injury. 

“ _Dean, stop!”_  Sam grips a hand onto his shoulder and squeezes, hard. “It’s not a fucking chest injury, Dean. Stop it.” Dean reluctantly stills his hands. “It’s the magic, it’s gotta be the spell we did.” Sam looks destroyed. After everything they went through, after all the fucking hoops and red tape, Candace is gonna die anyway. And they’re the ones who did it to her.

Candace trembles through another wave of pain. “Wh-why would it do that?” She clenches her eyes shut and a tear escapes. “The zemi didn’t work. The m-magic was stopped.”

Sam’s face crumples. “It wasn’t. We’re still affected. The only thing we broke was your tie to the remaining hex bags.” He grabs at her closest hand. “I’m so sorry. It must be backlashing through the only remaining conduit. You took a lot of power from your spells and, I don’t know—” He looks like he’s about to cry. “Maybe it’s taking it back.”

She gives Dean a sorrowful look and shudders through another tremor. “Why would you lie about that? What-what are you going to do? It’s going to k-kill you both.” She squeezes out another tear. “I’m sorry.”

“Kiddo,” Dean places a hand on the side of her face and gently rubs his thumb against her temple, “I’ve been fucking my brother for months now.” He gives Candace a rueful smile and her look of shock gradually turns into laughter.  

“You-you’ve been—?” She cracks up and clenches Sam’s hand in her own as she quakes with laughter. “The whole time?” Candace erratically giggles again at Sam’s sympathetic nod. She closes her eyes and smiles, gasping and laughing like the tinkling of bells through the rest of the pain, until she takes one last, quivering breath and finally stills.

Dean watches Candace’s motionless form for a few moments. She looks peaceful, and he supposes that it’s the only good he’s gonna get from any of this. He turns to his brother, whose head is still bowed over the woman’s corpse. “Sammy—”

“Don’t, Dean.” Sam’s tone is firm, darkly resolute. “If you touch me right now, I’m not gonna be able to stop it.”

Dean glances down to see that Sam is hard. Painfully so. And a quick check reveals that Dean is also tenting the front of his jeans. He hadn’t even noticed while worrying about Candace, but now that he’s aware, the arousal surges through him. He clenches his fist to bite his nails into the skin of his palm. It isn’t the time. “Do you want me to help you move her?”

Sam shakes his head, still turned away from him. “I can’t— Not with you so close. I won’t be able to…” Dean nods even if Sam can’t see it, the air between them already feels like it’s electrified. If he moves any closer, he’s pretty sure one of them will burn up. Sam staggers to his feet and grabs a comforter from the closest bed, then reverently wraps up Candace’s body in the garishly yellow fabric. “I’ll put her in the trunk, and then tonight…or tomorrow…” 

Dean holds perfectly still. “Sure, Sammy. We’ll deal with it then.”

Sam shivers and nods. He lifts her body into his arms and moves to the door. He makes it a few more feet than Dean would have guessed before he stumbles. The pain stretches between them like a blistering hook. The further Sam gets, the sharper the searing barbs pierce into both of their hearts. Sam staggers under the pain and lets out a hitched breath. “I’m sorry, Dean. I know it hurts—”

“It’s fine,” Dean manages to growl. “Just fucking hurry.”

Sam nods again, and with another groan of pain, makes his way through the door and into the parking lot. 

It feels like Dean’s chest is being skewered by white-hot barbed wire, tightening and clenching with every passing second. The longer Sam’s gone, the worse the agony, and Dean starts to feel a little faint. The spell is deadly if they wait too long and their unfairly sped-up timetable isn’t showing them any mercy. After what feels like eight hundred million hours, the pain slowly starts to let up. Then it eases into only feeling like torture. Then only agony. Right as Dean’s vision starts to blur, Sam comes tearing through the motel door, barreling into Dean’s chest and knocking the wind out of him. He burrows his head into the junction of Dean’s shoulder as Dean lies back and tries to breathe.  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Sam crushes Dean in his arms, strong and possessive, and then squeezes even tighter, mashing their hips together.  _Oh fuck, that feels good._ “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

Dean lifts his arm and lets it thump onto Sam’s back. “It’s okay, Sammy.” He drags his other hand to the back of Sam’s head and pushes his brother against him. “It’s all good. No harm done.” Dean turns his head to the side and breathes Sam in, almost crying in relief as the pain finally ebbs away and is replaced by the swelling lust of the spell. He slips his fingers under the hem of Sam’s shirts and slides along the warm skin until he can press his palm to his brother’s narrow waist. Sam groans and rolls his hips again, grinding slow and hard against Dean’s cock. And after all of the blood rushing back and forth throughout the day and the cockteasing and the fucking magic, Dean’s pretty sure he’s gonna shoot off in about three seconds. He rolls Sam over onto his back and shoves a hand over his face. 

“Dean, what—?”

“Shut up and close your eyes.” 

Sam whimpers and bucks his hips into Dean. “Why? Just—”

“Sam, close your goddamn _eyes_.” He makes an unhappy whining noise, but does what Dean asks. Dean slowly removes his hand, and once he’s sure Sam is complying, lets out a relieved sigh. “I just wanna tell you something before I get all whammied, okay?” Sam snorts in amusement. “Okay, fine. Before I get _completely_ whammied. That better, princess?” Sam smiles, but keeps his eyes shut. Dean skates the pad of his thumb over his brother’s eyebrow. “It’s not your fault, Sam. Not the demons, or Henriksen, or the girl, or even Candace.” Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean steamrolls over him. “Shut up. It’s not. We tried to save Candace. We try to save everybody, but sometimes it doesn’t happen. You’re doing the best you can and that doesn’t make you _evil_ , Sammy. So don’t—don’t say that anymore, okay?”

Sam's eyes are still closed, but he gives Dean a wistful smile and responds with a quiet, “Okay.”

Dean lets out a pleased hum. “Good. ‘Cause you’re actually a decent enough guy.” Sam laughs. He opens his eyes to finally meet Dean’s gaze, and suddenly the words are falling out of Dean’s mouth faster than he can think them up. “You’re more than that. I was lying just now. I don’t like being vulnerable.”  _Jesus Christ! What the hell?_  “You’re my everything, Sam. I don’t even want to wake up in the morning when you’re not there.” Dean tries to clamp his jaw shut, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the too-honest barrage. “You’re my brother,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “You’re it for me, and I can’t even imagine living without you. Sometimes, I don’t even think I’m a real person without you.” Goddammit, he sounds like the lead from a bad chick flick. What had Tony said yesterday? That everything he’d ever thought about his girl just came out of his mouth? God, the sap had talked himself out of sixty-five million bucks. What was Dean about to fuck up? “Sammy. I lo—” Dean actually does manage to snap his jaw shut on that one, even though it feels like his eyes are about to pop out of his skull. He fists his hands into Sam’s shirt as he tries to fight it off. “I’m in—” He chokes it down and punches the crappy motel carpeting next to his brother’s head. His aching knuckles distract him for another moment, but the second he lets his guard down, it bubbles out of his throat again. “I’m—” He squeezes his eyes shut as the words are dragged out of his mouth. “…I’m in lo—” Sam finally takes pity on him and surges up to meet him in a bruising kiss. And Dean literally sags in relief. It seems like the spell is satisfied enough as long as their mouths are busy.

Sam pushes up against him and jams Dean back against the side of a bed. “God, Dean,” he gasps out, then slants his mouth over Dean’s again, sucking at his bottom lip. “Me too.” Sam’s eyes go wide and he looks at him like he’s honestly sorry. “I—” Sam struggles with himself for a second, then quickly shifts to a different thought. Clever. “You’re so beautiful.” Dean makes a face and Sam laughs. “You are.” He brushes his fingers over the swell of Dean’s lips, then moves to trace over his eyelashes. “You’re so fucking beautiful that it hurts to even look at you sometimes. And I know you hate it, so I never say anything. But I want to. I want to say so many things to you. Like, all the time.” Sam grips Dean’s lapels and yanks him closer, moving them into safer territory. “And you smell like fucking leather, and it’s nuts because it’s _Dad’s_ fucking jacket.” He buries his face in Dean’s neck. “But it gets me hard so fast. Just the smell of it  Just the _thought_ of it. I’ll walk past a biker bar sometimes, and I’ll smell it, and my head will start spinning. It’s all I can do not to just grab you and shove you against a fucking wall.” He runs his hands up Dean’s neck to cradle his head, and crushes his chest against Dean’s, hard, like he’s trying to force them into one body. “And I feel like I’m going crazy because none of this is normal. It’s all just…it’s _insane_. Sometimes I can’t even breathe without you here. You’ll leave the room for fucking donuts or something and I feel like crying because I can’t see you. Feel you.” He chokes off a bitter sound, like it’s caught in the back of his throat. “I can’t help it,” he whispers. “I can’t stop it. And I don’t know what to do.”  

He pulls back just far enough to make sure that Dean is paying attention, like Dean could possibly be distracted at a time like this, and gazes at him. It’s the same stupid, earnest look he’d given Dean at the gay dudes’ house. “I’m going to save you.” It’s a desperate, insane vow, and Dean can feel that crushing ice again. Nothing to do with the spell, just plain old terror. “I’m going to save you.” It’s barely a whisper, full of conviction. “I’m going to save you.” He mumbles it against Dean’s lips.   

Dean pushes his tongue into Sam’s mouth to cut off any more of the miserable chant. It’s hopeless and it’s unhealthy and Dean needs him to stop, so he kisses Sam until he’s stupid. Until Dean can pretend that the quiet murmurs against his skin are nothing more than Sam’s usual meaningless flattery. False hope ain’t gonna do anything other than break them even more. “C’mon, Sam.” He manhandles his brother into a more reasonable position for Dean’s back. Sam is completely gone though. He’s sucking a brand under Dean’s jaw, pausing every once in a while to scrape his teeth over the reddened skin. It’s achingly distracting, and Dean just needs to get them up off the floor. “Sammy, c’mon. On the bed.” Sam makes another unintelligible sound and fumbles at Dean’s fly. He manages to get the button popped, and reaches inside to grope at Dean’s crotch. His cock practically leaps into his brother’s wide palm and Dean smashes his head back against the bed. “Fuck, Sam. Your _hands_.” 

Sam is still too caught up in the moment, because he doesn’t seem to register much past the word “hands”. He moans and nods against Dean’s neck. “Hands, yeah.” He grabs Dean’s wrists and places them where he wants them on his back and side. Then he stills for a moment, before moaning again and melting into Dean’s arms.

Nine times out of ten, an armful of turned-on, wriggling Sammy is a beautiful thing, but the metal of the cheap motel bed is digging into Dean’s spine and he just wants to bust a fucking nut before his head explodes. He manages to get a decent grip on his brother, who has moved on from Dean’s neck and is now rucking up his t-shirt to get at the skin of his chest, and hoists him onto the bed. Dean lets out a grateful breath, then realizes they’re on the bed without a blanket.

Sam seems to read his mind as he rolls back and pulls Dean on top of him. “Fuck it, who cares.” And who is Dean to argue with his genius brother? Nobody, that’s who. Instead, he slots in between Sam’s thighs and rocks against him until he can feel the friction through the thick denim. Dean’s content to grind against the hard bulge of Sam’s dick in his pants, but Sam twists over toward his backpack. “It’s not gonna work, Dean.” 

“Oh my god, I’m gonna punch you in the face. Would you please just stay still for three fucking seconds?” 

Sam jerks his hips up as Dean drags against a particularly sensitive spot, but refuses to let it go. “Just _this_ isn’t gonna work. I’ve been hard since this morning, Dean.” He sounds miserable. “It’s not helping.” 

Dean groans in frustration, but he’s pretty sure his brother’s right. “This is the most torturous fucking foreplay I’ve ever had to fucking go through.”

Sam laughs at that—a little manically, but who can blame him?—and pushes Dean away. “I’m just gonna go get—” He waves his hand at their bags. “I think it has to actually be sex, okay?” Sam looks deliciously debauched. His hair is a complete mess and his lips are bee-stung and he’s lost a ton of random buttons from his shirt. His jeans are completely undone, but still on, and he’s missing only one shoe. And Dean thinks it just might be the sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his fucking life, and what does that say about him?

Sam gives him another pleading look and Dean reluctantly backs away enough to let him up. “Go. Fuck, just hurry.” Sam scrabbles away as quick as he can and grabs his backpack, bringing the entire thing back with him, as he tumbles onto the bed again. He paws through the pouches as Dean presses into him from behind, running his hands down and over Sam’s chest. Sam finally manages to find the lube and kicks the bag away, spilling clothing as it rolls onto the floor. Dean hauls his brother under him once more. “Can we finally just—?”

“Yes. Oh God, yes.” Sam shoves the bottle into Dean’s hands and pushes at his jeans, finally getting them off one leg. They get caught at the foot that’s still wearing a shoe, but Sam doesn’t even blink, ignoring them in favor of working on Dean’s. He finally gets enough clothing off of them for sex to work, and Dean doesn’t waste a nanosecond before tipping the liquid out onto his fingers and thrusting one inside Sam. His brother bucks up off the bed with a grateful moan and Dean aches with envy. “Oh God, it’s good, Dean.  _Jesus_.” He adds another and Sam arches up into his touch. “Just keep—oh fuck.” Sam throws his head to the side and gropes at Dean’s chest. He finds his way down Dean’s stomach, then curls his hand around Dean’s cock and pulls.  

Dean can’t stop the pathetic noise that escapes at Sam’s touch. It’s fucking bliss and it’s fucking agony. Sam is jerking him at the same rate Dean is pumping his fingers into Sam, but it’s not enough and it’s only building the arousal to a painful crescendo, not doing anything to actually tip him over the edge. “Sam, stop. You gotta stop.  _God_.” Sam nods in understanding and pulls his hand away, and Dean almost takes everything back. The pleasure has transcended to mostly pain by now. It’s an exquisite pain, to be fair, but Dean has never needed to come more in his life. He adds a third finger, and Sam whines and pushes back into his hand. And as Dean looks down at his brother, gorgeous and wantonly blissed out under his hands, he’s struck with the strangest epiphany.

This is just…them. An intense version of them, to be sure, but they’ve been intense before. The spell definitely brought certain things to the forefront, but Dean doesn’t feel any _altered_ by the magic. It doesn’t feel like the dark ache of succubus venom or the hazy fog of a love spell. It doesn’t even feel like the frantic, unthinking urge of your run-of-the-mill sex pollen. Which Dean has encountered only once before, and ended up having one of the most interesting nights of his life. He can’t remember all of it, but there was definitely a nun and a co-ed involved. And maybe that motorcycle chick. It’s all still a little fuzzy. But none of this Gypsy crap _(or Romani, what the fuck ever Sam)_ feels any different than their usual fucking.

Sam moans under him and brings Dean back to the present. “Please, Dean. C’mon. I have to… Oh God, _please_.” 

Dean almost cries he’s so happy. “Oh thank god,” he breathes. He pulls his fingers out, slicks his dick up and practically rams himself into his brother. Sam cries out, but it sounds more like relief than pain. Sam slams his eyes shut and creases his forehead and throws his head back, and Dean thrusts once, twice, and then they’re both coming together with twin cries.  

Dean feels like his entire body has just come shooting out of his dick and he collapses onto Sam like a lead weight. He’s completely still for a moment, then he lets out a long, broken, _painful_ groan and curls himself around his brother. “Oh dear god…” he moans. Every single part of Dean is sore. Even his fucking face. “Why does this shit always have to happen to us?” 

Sam is entirely exhausted and motionless underneath him, other than the heavy breathing. He doesn’t even seem to be able to move his head. He closes his eyes and snarks, “I guess we’re just lucky…Quick Draw.”  

Dean wants to be pissed at the snide comment, but he can’t. It’s true and it’s utterly ridiculous and Sam’s in the same fucking boat and Dean just completely loses his shit. He turns his face into Sam’s abdomen and snorts into his brother’s shirt. Then he’s laughing. And then he’s howling, and Sam’s stomach muscles are jumping under his head as he loses it too, and they lie there cracking up until tears are coming out of Dean’s eyes and he’s having a hard time breathing. With a herculean effort, Dean hauls himself up onto his arms and leans over his still-giggling brother. “I’m going to fuck you again, Speedy. Let’s see if you can hold out for longer than thirty seconds this time, huh?” 

Sam actually looks kind of terrified. “Right now?”

“…Nah. Give me a few minutes.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

A few minutes turns into a few hours. And they order some pizza first, because nothing builds up Dean’s appetite more than an almost death-by-sex. They eat shitty sausage pizza, and watch some mind-numbing documentary Sam found about health insurance, and recover until the sun goes down. Then Dean slinks over his brother’s body and they go for round two. They even manage to get undressed this time. 

And it’s just as good as when they were under the spell. Better actually, without all the pain and the pressure. Dean takes the time to break Sam apart under his hands and put him back together again. And no one is ever gonna be able give him any other shitty nickname without making themselves a liar _(Sam)_. He may have even broken his previous endurance record, but it was pretty much a photo finish. Hard to tell. Ha, _hard_. 

But all kidding aside, Dean had just needed to make sure that the second time was good. He had to be certain that his earlier guess was right and they weren’t under any mind control before. That it wasn’t better or _more_ with the added magic. It was…important. He had to know. 

And he got exactly what he wanted. Or…maybe it was exactly what he shouldn’t want. Dean sighs and glances down at his brother. Sam is naked and mouth-watering under the sheets. He’s curled into Dean, and his head is resting on Dean’s hip, and he looks fucked out and tired and happy. It’s a good thing that they weren’t under any influence. Sam would have been upset otherwise. Although, maybe that wouldn’t have been terrible. Maybe the distraction would have been enough to clear Sam’s mind of any stupid ideas about Hell.  _Maybe it would hurt less when Dean was gone._

Dean shoves the rest of the maudlin bullshit out of his head. Distraction, huh? What they need is a hunt. A nice, simple salt and burn. He clears his throat to get his brother’s attention. “Hey, Sammy. It’s supposed to be leap year, right?”

Sam gives him a completely baffled look. “Um…yes?” He shifts upward and the sheets dip temptingly low on his hips. “Why?” 

Dean smiles. It almost even feels real. “Thought we could head back to Wisconsin.” 

“Back to Wisconsin?” Sam asks. “Because of leap year?” And then his brow relaxes once he realizes what Dean’s getting at. He sucks his lip between his teeth and lets out a reluctant sigh. “The Morton house.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Dean does his best to appear casually excited. “One last chance for me to check it out.” Sam still looks unconvinced, so Dean pulls out all the stops. “C’mon, Sammy. It’ll be like our Grand Canyon.”  

Sam caves at the words, just like Dean knew he would, and his face falls into the ‘do whatever Dean wants’ expression that he’s been sporting for most of the last year. Dean wants chili dogs for breakfast? Do whatever he wants, he’s going to Hell. Dean wants to drive across the country, completely out of our way, to go to Vegas? Do whatever he wants, he’s going to Hell. Dean wants to fuck his baby brother?  _Do whatever he wants, he’s…_  Dean’s stomach sours and he can’t even finish the thought.

Sam looks up at him and gives him a pathetic attempt at a smile. It makes Dean want to throw up. It makes Dean want to kiss him. “Of course, man. That sounds good.” 

“Great.” He wonders if Sam can hear the tremor his voice. Dean plants a soft peck onto Sam’s lips so that he can’t see his face, then moves to slide out of the bed.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Just going to call Bobby. He wanted to talk about the spell.” 

Sam does his best to sound like he isn’t shaken by Dean’s sudden mood. “Alright man,” he tries for a joke, “just don’t go touching any more magic bags. Had enough of that for one lifetime.”

Something about Sam’s statement pings him the wrong way, but Dean pushes it aside and forces a chuckle. “That’s more your thing, Klepto. You had your hands all over it.” Sam just smiles in response and finally lets Dean slip away. He settles back under the sheets and curls in on himself to fall asleep as best he can. Dean surreptitiously watches Sam out of the corner of his eye until his breathing evens out, and then heads over to the table where he’d tossed his phone. He gets about four steps before realizing with an icy jolt what exactly about Sam’s words had bothered him. 

Dean had never actually touched the hex bag. 

Not once, the entire time. But it _had_ worked on him. Even though Sam was the only one to trigger it. And it wasn’t like Dean was the only person in the room at the time. It couldn’t even be one of those ‘whoever you’re looking at’ things either, because Sam had been talking to Duncan. Dean was just standing next to him. Hell, they weren’t even _touching_. Scenarios pour through his mind before he can work up the courage to call. Bobby had said that it was more than just a sex curse. And all of the couples that they met were happy. More than they should have been. Tony had lost his entire fortune, but he still stared at Helena like the sun shined out her ass. The senator guy had just lost his job, so had Duncan. It was like all of the vics had someone that made them truly happy. Like they had something more important than whatever it was they lost. Dean swallows around the dread in his throat and dials. 

“Dean?” 

“Hey Bobby, you wanted to talk about the spell right?” 

He can hear Bobby clear his throat. “Uh, sure. You get that mess all sorted?”

“Yeah. Your Ukrainian worked, but uh…” He sighs. “Candace is dead.”

“Sorry to hear it. You alright with that?” 

Dean scoffs. “She was your friend, Bobby. You oughta be worrying about yourself.” 

The pause at the other end of the line is careful, deliberate. “Well, that sorta thing happens, this line of work.” 

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, don’t I know it.” He waits for Bobby to continue, but the other man seems to be doing the exact same thing, so Dean barrels on. “So, the spell. You said it wasn’t a sex thing.”

“No, it ain’t. I told you, the Gypsies don’t go in for that crap.”

Dean smiles. “Don’t let Sam hear you calling ‘em that.”

Bobby’s replying tone is warm. “It’s a love charm, but it’s not actually a spell. It don’t put anything there that ain’t there to begin with. It just seeks out certain targets and pushes ‘em together.” 

“Certain targets?” 

“Yup.” He pops the consonant.

Dean sighs and shoves down the icy dread that’s trying to claw out of his chest. “True love?”

Bobby lets out an amused breath. “How’d you guess?”

Dean rubs a hand over his forehead and settles onto the bed across from his sleeping brother. And shoves the fucking manacles out of the way. “So that’s a thing huh?” 

“’Course it is, soul mates are all over the lore. You’d have to be born yesterday not to believe in it. Or blind.” 

Dean winces. “ _Soul mates_ , Bobby? Jesus.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me just ‘cause you don’t like the lingo.”

Dean smiles bitterly into his hand. “So Candace just happened to Princess Bride her way across the West Coast?”

“Suppose so. If you happen to find the right book, anything’s possible.”

Dean fidgets for a bit, but Bobby doesn’t push through the silence until Dean starts up again. “So, if one of the people messed with the hex bag…?”

“It would automatically latch onto the other half of the pair as well. Stronger the love, stronger the spell.” There’s another careful pause. “Why? You manage to get all the couples sorted?” 

Dean laughs. It sounds like a death sentence. “Yeah. We got ‘em sorted.”

Something in Dean’s tone must come across, because Bobby switches to his ‘parent’ voice. “How you handlin’ yourself, Dean? You know we ain’t giving up on working on a way to get you out of the noose.” 

“No. I know.” He twitches his lips into an almost-smile. “Thanks for the info, Bobby.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome.”

Dean shuts the phone closed and rests his head in his hands. Woo-hoo, he was right. He wonders why that never feels like a good thing. And Candace had died for fucking nothing. She started all of that shit because her husband had stepped out, but she had a freaking true love spell in her hands the entire time and she didn’t even know it. All that misery and pain and death, and she could have just used her own stupid spell on herself. Dean stops himself from letting out a painful chuckle. Because it’s funny, but it’s also not. And if Dean starts laughing, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop crying. 

He glances at Sam, sleeping peacefully in the disheveled bed. He’s turned to Dean, even in his sleep, as if he unconsciously and instinctively knows which direction to reach toward. Dean thinks— _maybe he does—_ and has to fight back a grimace. Sam was supposed to be fine. The only reason Dean was even willing to do this—this whole _thing_ , was because he knew that Sam would get over it. It wasn’t anything other than the last, desperate grasp of a dying man. This one thing that Dean would take for himself. The only thing he’d ever wanted _(needed)_ for purely selfish reasons and he’d let himself have it. He’d given in to his own sick, fucked-up desires because he was doomed anyway and why not throw a party on the way down? It would be the one thing that he could hold onto once the demons started to rip his humanity away.  

But he always thought that Sam would be alright. Sam was stronger than Dean would ever be. He’d given his brother a lot of shit over leaving in the past, but it was more than Dean had ever been able to do. Sam would grieve, sure, but he’d eventually find someone else. A girl like Jess. Or like Madison. Hell, maybe he’d even go back and visit Sarah in New York. He’d fall in love and he’d move on and he’d eventually forget all about the twisted fling he’d had with his loser brother. It would be just one little kindness, a simple pity fuck for the man who was going to Hell.  

Dean scrubs a hand over his eyes and steadfastly ignores the hint of moisture he can feel. If he’d known that Sam and him were… That he was Sam’s— _don’t say it, don’t you dare fucking say it—_ Dean would never have even thought about starting anything. He couldn’t do that to his brother, not even if it meant that Dean went to Hell completely alone. Memories and all. 

Candace’s words from earlier ping through his skull.  _“What are you supposed to do when the love of your life is gone? How are you supposed to move on from that?”_

Somewhere across the street, he can hear a neighbor’s dog start barking.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Heart's "Crazy On You"


End file.
